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MARGARET E. SANCSTER, Jr. 



REAL PEOPLE 

AND DREAMS 

A New Book of 

STORIES and POEMS 

MARGARET E^'^ANGSTER, Jr. 



THE CHRISTIAN HERALD 

BIBLE HOUSE 

NEW YORK 



-^6 3^37 



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CoPYRiaHT, 1915 
THE CHRISTIAN HERALD 

NEW YORK 



5EC 20 1915 



'GI.A416994 



FOREWORD 

IT HAS been a great pleasure to me personally, as well 
as to many others, to note the remarkable success of Miss 
Sangster's first book, "Friends 0' Mine," issued a year ago. 
It was not merely that capable critics praised it as it de- 
served, and hailed the author as a new star in the galaxy 
of American poets. Her book struck a chord which evoked 
the surprise and admiration of all who were familiar with 
the literary life work of the famous predecessor whose name 
she bears — a name that was a literary landmark for a quarter 
of a century. 

Miss Sangster has a prolific and versatile gift. Her poems 
and stories deal with many phases of human life and char- 
acter and always uniquely and delightfully. In the present 
volume there is a revelation of new qualities which I believe 
will assure it an enthusiastic reception. Many of the poems 
are especially fine, and deal with the old, sweet, familiar 
themes in a way that cannot fail to win a still higher place in 
the affections of the Christian Herald readers, for whom it 

has been especially written. 

GEO. H. SANDISON, 

Editor of The Christian Herald. 



NOTE 

"The City Streets at Night" was originally 
published by the "Newspaper Feature Serv- 
ice." I wish to thank the editor for allowing 
me to reprint it in this volume. 



DEDICATION 

TO MY FRIENDS — WHOEVER THEY ARE, 
WHEREVER THEY ARE. 



CONTENTS— PROSE 



TITLE PAGE 

The Story of a Smile 23 

The Little Girl at Home 28 

The Old China Plate 41 

The City Streets at Night 45 

The Lincoln Spirit 46 

The Voice of Valley Forge 56 

In the Dark 60 

The Search for Happiness 73 

A Bit o' Shamrock 77 

An Easter Fable 89 

The Joy of Easter 95 

The Kind Conductor 105 

In the Apple Tree 108 

House Cleaning 122 

The Mold of Heroines 125 

A Nation's Birthday 136 

The Girl Who Came Back 140 

The Things That are Hard to Get 162 

God's Children 166 

The Garden Spot 169 

A Mince Pie Thanksgiving 179 

Count Your Blessings 183 

The Fable of the Poison Ivy 196 

Love of People 200 

See Something Beautiful 202 

The Miracle of the Swamp 214 

On Counting Chickens 217 

Convict No. 66 219 

The Lonely Lady's Chi-istmas Story 227 

The Great Gift 231 

11 



CONTENTS— VERSE 



TITLE PAGE 

Sunshine 15 

The King 16 

The Autumn Road 17 

An Old Valentine 19 

An Evening Prayer 20 

"If Music Be the Food of Love" 21 

The Mother 22 

A New Year's Vision 35 

Power 36 

When Betty Smiles 37 

The Sword's Fate 38 

The Presence 39 

The Bread Line 40 

Remember 49 

The Rain 50 

Egypt— Then and Now 51 

Your Laughter 53 

The Fable of the Three Elms 54 

A Prayer 64 

A Song 65 

The Broken Promise 66 

The Madonna of the Street 67 

The Doorway of the Old Home 71 

The Indian Chief's Love Song 81 

Luck 82 

Bundle Day 83 

Down the Hudson in a Storm 84 

The Right to Play 87 

Love-At First Sight 88 

Moonlight 99 

Why, You Know ! 100 

Black 101 

"Lo, I am With You Alway" 103 

Vacation Days 104 

The Night Ride 114 

The Shame of It 115 

To a Silent Maa 117 

12 



CONTENTS— VERSE— Continued 

TITLE PAGE 

Idyl US 

Life's Song 119 

Unknown 121 

God's Little Cross 129 

Loneliness 130 

The Deserted Mill 131 

That Night 132 

The Birthright 133 

Christianity 134 

Jimmy Nealan's Sacrifice 152 

Pasture Land 158 

A Poor Man's Love Letter 159 

The Worid of Sand 160 

When Night Comes 161 

Children's Day 172 

A Greeting 174 

Your Soul 175 

Where Jesus Walked 176 

My Castle in Spain 177 

A Lullaby 178 

Turkeys in the Summertime 190 

Thanksgiving' 191 

"Oh ! East is East-" 192 

Typewriter Soldiers 193 

That's Heaven 195 

Reading at Twilight 206 

The Dead Flower 207 

A Golden Wedding 209 

Kindness 210 

To a Lion in a Zoo 211 

Mists o' the Sea 213 

A Thorny Rose 221 

Harvest Gold 222 

Fragments 223 

"If" 224 

A Mother's Prayer at Christmas 225 

Christmas Eve 235 

Santa Claus' Dilemma 236 

Waiting 239 

The Christmas Streets 240 

Christmas 242 

Sunset 244 

13 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



TITLE PAGE 

Margaret E. Sangster, Jr Frontispiece 

The 'Lopement 65 

The Rooster 81 

When Molly Feeds the Ducks 145 

Geese 161 



14 



SUNSHINE 



Sunshine in the morning! 
Eosy gleams of day, 
That push the clouds asunder, 
Like fairies come to stay. 
Sunshine in the morning 
When all the world is young, 
When life is all before us 
And songs are all unsung! 

Sunshine in the morning — 
God grant the day be fair! 
And may there be a murmur. 
Through all of it, of prayer. 
Sunshine in the morning. 
When songs are all unsung; 
When life is all before us. 
And all the world is young. 



15 



16 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE KING 



"God and my king !" the soldier cried, 

And, leaping past the trenches, died; 

And all across the bloody land, 

Men fought with sword, and gun, and hand. 

And over fields of grain there blew 

A cloud of smoke — Where poppies grew, 

A redder, grimmer blossom swayed — 

While children screamed, and women prayed. 

"God and my king!" the soldier cried. 

And little dreamed that close beside 

The throne, a man with saddened eyes. 

Was gazing, hopeless, at the skies, 

While up above the heavens grim. 

The eyes of God were watching him; 

And that the angel's tears were shed, 

Above the harvest of the dead. 

"God and my king!" the soldier cried, 
And, leaping past the trenches, died — 
But as he passed he raised his head. 
And — "God alone is Icing!" he said. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 17 



THE AUTUMN ROAD 



Down the road where the dust lies white. 
Sunbeams dance and my heart is light; 
O'er my head gleams a sky of blue, 
God's own angels are smiling through ; 
All of life is agleam and bright, 
Down the road where the dust lies white. 

Down the road where the leaves blow down. 
Glowing jewels from the autumn's crown; 
Fairies call and their voices stray 
Light as foam on the glowing way. 
Scarlet, yellow and sombre brown — 
Down the road where the leaves blow down. 

Down the road where the sky lines meet, 
White with clouds at my very feet. 
Breezes sing of a life of play. 
Sing of worlds that are far away. 
Ah ! the tale that they croon is sweet, 
Down the road where the sky lines meet. 

Down the road by the laughing stream 
All the tints of the rainbows gleam; 
Golden flowers with waving heads. 
Flaming orange and throbbing reds. 
Asters grouped in a purple dream, 
Down the road by the laughing stream. 

Down the road where the sunbeams creep, 
Past the crest of the hill to sleep, 



18 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Birds are breathing their twilight call — 
Peace of God is around us all. 
Sweet content in my heart lies deep, 
Down the road where the sunbeams creep. 

Down the road at the close of day 
Man- wrought buildings are far away; 
All the fears of a crowded earth 
Slip away in a tender mirth; 
God has meant that His children stray 
Down the road at the close of day. 

Down the road where the shadows fall 

Grey as ghosts on the old stone wall, 

Memories stand, and their faces fair 

Turn my way, and they murmur "Where?" 

Love and sorrow, beyond recall. 

Stand and smile when the shadows fall. 

Down the road where the dust lies white. 
Slow I walk, but my heart is light — 
Smallest blossom and highest tree 
Bend to pray — and are one with me. 
Night is coming, a perfect night, 
Down the road where the dust lies white. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 19 



AN OLD VALENTINE 



I wandered to an attic where lacy cobwebs swayed, 
Where sunbeams, dusty golden, were dancing as they strayed ; 
And as I crossed the threshold with footsteps soft and slow, 
I felt the hidden presence of ghosts of long ago. 

I saw a wooden chest there with rusty lock and key, 
And when I knelt before it my dreaming eyes could see 
Initials twined together and carving almost hid 
By scratches, deeply graven upon the polished lid, 

I knelt beside it, silent, and opened it with care; 
I felt as if some girl-soul were standing by me there; 
For dainty garments whispered, and perfumed laces sung 
Of morning and of springtime, when all the world was young. 

I saw a folded paper, all yellow with the years. 
Perhaps the print of kisses, perhaps the mark of tears 
Had touched it once — for, fastened with bow of faded blue, 
It whispered through the ages a message," "I love you !" 

I laid it gently from me and closed the chest with care, 
And breathing through the stillness I heard behind me there 
A murmur — half a love word, and half, perhaps, a sigh — 
The phantom of a heart-beat of many years gone by. 



30 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



AN EVENING PRAYER 



God, who shaped the mountains high, 
Who made the fields, the grassy plain, 
Who sent the breeze, the gentle rain. 

Who filled with blue the peaceful sky, 

Oh, let thy healing Spirit lie 

Within our hearts. We feel thy care; 
We know that thou art everywhere. 

To keep our souls from sin and stain. 
God, hear our cry! 

Thy sheep are grazing on the green; 

They have no cares they would release; 

The very shadows on their fleece 
Are violet-tinted, and the scene 
Is beautiful, and calm, and clean. 

They do not worry, do not pine, 

Because they are so wholly thine. 
We beg a vestige of their peace. 
On thee we lean! 

God of the mountains, of the sheep. 
Watch gently o'er our evening sleep. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 21 



IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD 
OF LOVE" 



"If music be the food of love, play on — " 

And oh, I've played; 
With crashing chords and tender songs, 

My fingers light have strayed 
Across the keys, and all the time, 

My heart has echoed high; 
The notes that I have played — and felt — 

Until above the sky, 
My melody has flown on wings, 

And reached the gates of glory. 
And all the universe has sung, 

An echo to my story. 

****** 

If music were forgetfulness — my hands 

Would play until I, wearied, fell asleep, 
Until the darkness of the midnight skies. 

My watch would keep. 
If music were forgetfulness, my song 

Would ring across the weary wind-swept earth, 
Until the love songs died to whispers sweet; 

And only laughter lived, and ringing mirth 
My heart would happy be, no sorrows keen 

Would touch my smiles, my eyes would not be wet- 
•'If music be the food of love — play on — " 

Ah! God — if music could make one forget! 



23 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE MOTHER 



Shure, dear, me arms are empty now . . 

The evenin' time is fallin' 
Across a weary stretch o' peat; 

And little voices, callin', 
Are in me heart; they bid ye come, 

The shadows, dear, are creepin', 
God ! other mothers have their boys, 

But mine — Where is he sleepin'? 

Shure, dear, yer hair was bright as gold, 

Against me shoulder lyin'; 
I used ter sing a little song — 

"By-lo" ... He may be dyin' ! • 
The sunlight flickered in yer eyes. 

And on yer birthday morn, 
The blessed angels in the sky 

Were glad ye had been born. 

Shure, dear, I see ye in the fields, 

I hear yer laughter playin' 
Along the road, and yet I know, 

'Tis just the night wind strayin' 
Among the trees; Me little lad. 

Me very heart and soul 
Are kneelin' at the Master's throne. 

God keep him well — and whole ! 

Shure, dear, I would not hold ye back. 

But — curse the cannon screamin' ! 
Yer mine — not any king's — an' yet 

I'd have ye brave . , . I'm dreamin' 
I hear yer step so light and gay, 

Yer singin' at the plow. 
Machree — The dark is comin' fast, 

Me arms are empty now! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 23 



THE STORY OF A SMILE 



IT ALL happened because Mary Ann smiled at the 
Butcher Boy when he came to the Large House for his 
order. Mary Ann had lately come from a country 
where the simple people believe that fairies dance in the 
morning and banshees cry at night, and smiling was one of 
her habits. Besides, the Butcher Boy was good to look upon, 
in a freckle-faced, red-haired sort of way. 

The Little House where the Young Clerk and his 
Younger Wife lived, rested precariously in the shadow of 
the Large House, and the Butcher Boy — going in there for 
his order — smiled at the Wife when he left; so the Wife, 
bearing the sunshine of the smile in her heart, smiled at her 
husband as he started for the office. She kissed him, too. 
It was a spring day with blue skies and yellow sunshine, 
and a breath of flowers in the air. As the Young Clerk 
swung along, he forgot that he was overworked and under- 
paid, forgot that he had worries and cares. He only re- 
membered that some one at home loved him and that the 
world was beautiful, so, as he passed through the outer office, 
he smiled at the shy Little Stenographer, who banged away 
at an army of letters. That is why the Little Stenographer, 
when she took the letters to the Big Boss to be signed, 
smiled embarrassedly as he glanced up into her anxious face. 
The Big Boss was hated by his foes and admired — grudg- 
ingly — by his business associates. He was feared much, and 
avoided much (as the case might be) by his employes. He 
was tolerated by society and his church because he could 
sign a check with seven figures on the left side of the decimal 
point; but he was loved by — nobody. He was pleased at the 
Little Stenographer's shy smile, for smiles did not come his 



24 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

way very often. Suddenly he, too, realized, just as his 
Young Clerk had realized, that the world still held blue 
skies, and flowers, and springtime. 



Mateo was the bad man of the city. He was hailed be- 
low a certain street as "Chief"; above a certain street as 
"Villain." The Police Court had a picture of him in its 
very fine gallery, a picture labeled "The Wolf." Mateo was 
a clever man, with eyes that were wonderfully soft and a 
tongue that spoke a language of music, with feet that were 
swift and sure to escape, and hands that were horribly cun- 
ning in the manufacture of little black boxes that ticked 
like alarm-clocks and were lined with strange wires and 
stranger chemicals. Like the Big Boss, Mateo was hated 
and feared and admired, but, unlike the Big Boss, Mateo 
was loved — had always been loved. His Mother had loved 
him — a dark-faced baby in swaddling clothes; his wife had 
loved him as he came, straight as a sapling, with eyes that 
sang of love, to woo her; and, now that mother and wife 
were both dead, his daughter loved him as he dandled her 
on his knee ! 

This same daughter was the pride of Mateo's life. All 
the love of his southern nature was poured out on her tiny 
head, all the good of his soul looked into her eyes. But, al- 
though Mateo would have done anything for the sake of his 
child, he would not have given up his profession. His busi- 
ness of blowing people to bits was just as much his life-work 
as the Big Boss's business of blowing people's dreams to 
fragments was his life-work. Besides, the little daughter 
would not have wanted him to give up his profession ! Some 
people called him "The Villain" or "The Chief" or "The 
Wolf"; but she called him "Daddy." 

Just now, Mateo had an important bit of business to do. 
Bending over a table, he was putting together some intricate 
little wheels, mixing some white powders in a test tube. As 
he worked he hummed a song, and a smile flitted across his 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 25 

handsome face. His song was in a foreign tongue, and it 
told of flowers and blue sky and springtime. 

Mateo had a text that he lived by, a text that had been 
quoted in the newspapers after several daring murders. 
When the smoke of his exploding bombs had swirled away 
into the sky, the police always found a scrap of paper, type- 
written, nailed to the wall. It always said, "The Wolf 
never forgets — he pays !" 

The Big Boss had a way of taking money, indiscriminate- 
ly, from folk. He had a way of giving interviews to the 
papers, also indiscriminately. 

The taking of money hurt most people; the interviews 
hurt very few, but in one of them he had quoted Scripture 
ponderously: "Unto him that hath it shall be given," he 
had said, and quoted his own bank account. He had spoken 
about polite robbers who took money in a "lawful" way (had 
praised them) and of criminals like Mateo, who did their 
work in the dark — artistically. He had said that he was 
going to spend some of his money on banishing "The Wolf" 
and his associates from the city. After reading the article, 
Mateo began on a splendid black box. He sang as he 
worked, and wondered what part of the Big Boss's office he 
would place the finished product in. 

Mateo's home was not far from the gloomy pile of archi- 
tecture that surrounded the Big Boss's private life. In the 
city, crime and prosperity, religion and wickedness, life and 
death, often rub elbows unknowingly. When the Big Boss, 
dismissing his limousine, walked home, he passed within 
a stone's throw of a remarkable little laboratory that the 
police chief would have spent many thousands of dollars to 
locate. He often passed the small daughter of Mateo play- 
ing in the sun. To Mateo she was a cherub, but to the Big 
Boss she was a rather dirty foreign child that cluttered up 
the right-of-way. 

Fate, weaving swiftly with threads of life, often stops 
to play a practical joke on people. Sometimes her jokes 
are brutal, unladylike jokes; but sometimes they are as gen- 



26 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

tie as the breeze of summertime. Perhaps it was she who 
put the smile on Mary Ann's lips; perhaps it was she who 
made the Little Stenographer forget her shyness; surely it 
was she who made the beauty of the day. 

Mateo sat in his room working happily, and Fate, spin- 
ning at her wheel, made the Big Boss to walk home. Mateo, 
watching from a narrow window, saw his small daughter 
playing with a china doll ; but Fate made the doll slip from 
the tiny mother's arm as the Big Boss swung down the 
street. The daughter of Mateo began to scream. 

On another day the Big Boss would have sworn at the 
small figure; but he remembered Just in time that the sky 
was bright and that a smile was blooming in his heart. He 
stopped before the little girl. 

"What is the matter?" he asked kindly. 
The daughter of Mateo was fearless, as her father was 
fearless. She looked up into the eyes of the tall, grim 
figure in the immaculate clothes. 

"I break-a my bambina," she sobbed. 
The Big Boss rumpled his beautifully creased trousers 
by kneeling in the dust of the street. His hands, powerful 
hands, picked up the fragments of doll. Mateo, looking 
from his window, gasped. 

"Perhaps," said the Big Boss, "we can fix it." 
The daughter of Mateo stamped her foot. She was 
spoiled. 

"No ! No ! No !" she shrieked, "my bambina ees broken !" 

Quite desperately the Big Boss put his hand in his pocket. 

He had found that money usually solved problems. When 

his hand came out it held a round, shiny gold-piece. From 

his window Mateo could see the glitter of it in the sun. 

The daughter of Mateo knew gold when she saw it. Her 
baby soul was thrifty. Gold meant many new dolls. Her 
tears dried miraculously as the Big Boss laid the money in 
her hand, and with a smile, as sudden as the sun after an 
April shower, she lifted up her dirty-cherub face. The Big 
Boss, with an embarrassed smile, kissed her. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 27 

Up in his remarkable little laboratory Mateo began to 
take the small black box apart. He laid the powders away. 

The wheels of fate spin steadily on. The Big Boss still 
breaks people's dreams (for a spring day does not last), and 
the Wolf still makes bombs and leaves curt messages (for a 
gold piece does not convert the bad man of a city per- 
manently) ; but the daughter of Mateo plays happily with a 
new doll, and Mary Ann still smiles ! 



28 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE LITTLE GIRL AT HOME 



THE night was dark, a thick impenetrable kind of dark- 
ness with a shifting veil of snow drawn sullenly across 
it — snow that crept stealthily down over the house- 
tops and powdered the dark, gaunt boughs of the trees. 
There were more trees, more by millions, than houses, for 
the country was a dark ruin-filled part of the world. Merci- 
fully the snow covered the most ghastly of the ruins. 

Far, far off over the top of a distant hill the glow of a 
rocket occasionally lit the vault of the dark sky; infinitely 
farther off came a dull thread of sound — the sound of guns 
roaring at great intervals, miles away. Once in awhile some 
animal — perhaps a wolf, more likely a starving dog, howled 
dismally as it plowed through the snow. 

The man who swayed limply down the road put one shak- 
ing hand to his head and brushed back a damp mass of fair 
hair that clung to his brow. His eyes, which had almost 
grown accustomed to the ghastly blackness of snowy nights, 
stared in front of him, his ears, that would never grow ac- 
customed to the howls of starving animals, shuddered at the 
sound that cut sharply through the stillness. 

"God !" he murmured, in his own tongue. It sounded, 
as it was, like a prayer for help. Alone in the mercilessness 
of a country of ruins one instinctively talks to God. 

In an answer that seemed a hideous mockery — for every- 
thing in the land seemed a hideous mockery — a cannon 
boomed and a rocket shattered the darkness into a vaguely 
shaped sphere of grey. Far, horribly far above loomed the 
sky — far above that was Heaven. One wondered if Heaven 
were warm. One wondered if God really lived ihere and 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 29 

really watched the earth. One wondered — if God did watch — 
why wars had to be ... . One did very little but won- 
der. 

The road wound out — like a brown ribbon outlining the 
hem of some white dress — a brown ribbon that was fast be- 
coming white like the dress. The man smiled at the simile; 
Gretchen had once had a white dress with a brown ribbon 
around the hem, and the ribbon had faded from many wash- 
ings. The brown ribbon had matched her eyes and the darker 
gleams in her warm blond hair. Gretchen ! Gretchen was 
the little girl at home. The man stopped smiling — he 
groaned as he shifted his arm carefully in the rude sling 
he had fashioned out of a muffler. A splash of red fell on 
the snow and glowed there. 

Far off, across the distant hill a rocket, two rockets, cut 
through the air. The man wondered if it were a signal. 
Straining, his eyes glanced back over his shoulder, but the 
night was too dark. No forms showed up against the swish- 
ing veil of snow. Just behind the snow they might be, 
they might be hurrying — but, thank God, they did not show. 
The man stumbled over something that lay half buried in 
the roadway — something that was half frozen and yet limply 
soft. He cursed the dark — cursed it sharply even as he 
blessed it. 

Lumpily, out of the shadows, a little hut rose — a little 
hut that bore the scars, half hidden under the snow, of con- 
flict. The man sighed as he realized the horrible irony of 
the situation. Days ago he had helped, not individually, 
but nevertheless helped, in the ruining of these same houses. 
And now he was coming back over the same trail. 

A wan little light flung itself suddenly across his feet. 
It filtered through a crack in the door, thought the man, as 
he came to a sudden halt beside the half-snowed-over little 
step. Was it possible that the wan little light might mean — 
refuge ? Was it possible that the wan little light might mean 
hope? Was it possible that warmth and food and — friends 
might linger on the other side of the door ! 



30 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The man hesitated and his eyes, grown keener, if any- 
thing, with the heaviness of his anxiety, searched the road 
behind him, and then glanced swiftly in front. A wall of 
blackness overcast with the white snow closed in on him 
everywhere. Sure death lurked in the background — death 
in the hands of a little band of eager-to-kill men. In front 
of him lay — freezing and — suddenly the howl of the starving 
dog echoed on the wind — it was much nearer. The man 
pushed forward and banged upon the door. 

There was a faint sound inside, and the man in the road- 
way visibly brightened. His free hand — the one that was 
not dripping blood, clutched at a pistol in his belt. There 
was one charge in the pistol; it might do for the one who 
had made the sound, or — if there were more than one — it 
might do for himself. Still, the sound had been very faint 
and very faint sounds are encouraging in war times. So 
many sounds are hideously, grindingly loud. 

The man drew the pistol from his belt and tapped on the 
panel of the door. 

"Open !" he shouted harshly, "open" — he checked himself 
in time, he had been going to say "in the name of the Em- 
peror." Instead he murmured "in the name of God." 

The door opened suddenly in answer to the knock of the 
pistol — so suddenly that the man, who had been reeling 
against the threshold, stumbled inside and fell to his knees 
with a dull thud. It might be a trap, this that he had 
stumbled into, but somehow the man did not worry. He 
only knew that the bad air of the little hut was warmer 
than the air had been outside, he only knew that the light, 
though it came from a weak candle, was almost unbearable 
to his eyes, for they had seen nothing but darkness for 
many hours. He only knew that something was brushing 
past him to shut the door, something small with light fingers, 
that touched his hair. He knelt there, silent, in the midst 
of a greater silence. 

When one has been long in the darkness — especially the 
cold darkness — a light, no matter how small that light is, 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 31 

bears down like so many burning needles upon the eyeballs. 
As the pressure of these needles grows lighter objects that 
stand in front of one loom out in a startlingly distinct man- 
ner. The man, as soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the 
wan glow of the candle, saw a plain room — so plain — that 
an observer would call it bare. There was a table, a rude 
cot with a pile of blankets on it, a solitary stool, and a picture 
of the Saviour pinned onto the rough log wall. The man saw, 
with a sense of the unfitness of things — or may be the eternal 
fitness — that he was kneeling directly under the picture. 

The small something was coming back from the door — 
the door that had been firmly shut against the blackness of 
the night and the howls of the starving dogs. In the dim 
light the something took form in a tiny thin girl with black 
curls clustering about her face and big brown eyes. 

The little girl at home had just such eyes ! 

"What are you doing here?" asked the man painfully. 
The child smiled at him, her eyes gleaming in her small, 
pale face. It was quite clear that she had not understood 
his words, but it was also very plain that she understood 
his tone. 

"Daddy's clothes !" she cried gleefully. She had noticed 
his uniform. 

A bit of the language lessons that he had protested against 
volubly in school days came to the man's aid. With troubled 
eyes he glanced down at his uniform — the uniform he had 
no right to wear — the uniform that meant death if they 
caught him in it. He sighed as he looked at the bright colors 
of it and longed vaguely for the neutral shade of his own 
clothing. 

"Daddy's clothes," cried the little girl again. She slipped 
nearer. Her hand rested on his pistol with its one pitiful 
shot — "Daddy's gun," she chuckled. 

The man gazed into the pale little face so near his 
own. Why, the child looked thin and hungry and cold ! 
Where were her parents — why had they left her ? He essayed 
to speak but found his vocabulary too limited. 



32 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

"Where — is — daddy?" he managed. 

The little girl broke into a voluble stream of language 
that rippled musically from her small mouth. The man, still 
kneeling on the floor, caught stray phrases that he under- 
stood — "Daddy gone," he caught. "Mother dead — long ago !" 
"Everybody run." Swiftly he reasoned to himself that the 
child's father had gone to the front, leaving her in the hands 
of careless neighbors, who had forgotten the trust when the 
enemy came marching through the town. They had left her 
to the mercy of the cold, the snow, the howling dogs, and — ■ 
God knows what else ! He thought of the little girl at home 
in a similar plight and shuddered. Something of the look 
in his eyes made the child draw very near and lay her thin 
little arms around his neck. 

"Daddy's eyes !" she cooed. She had surprised the father 
look in them. 

The man threw his well arm across his face. The room 
was whirling around. The picture on the wall, the table, 
the cot bed danced madly in a frenzied circle. 

"God — " he moaned — he thought of this little girl, her 
father at the front — his own little girl at home. "God," he 
moaned again, "this is — war !" It was his first protest. 

Outside the dog howled again. It was very near. The 
little girl shivered convulsively and laid her cheek against 
his face. 

"Nice— man — come," she murmured ingratiatingly — 
"Nice — man — stay !" 

The man shivered convulsively, too, and his wounded arm 
sagged limply in the improvised sling. All too plainly he 
saw that there was no refuge in the hut — no hiding place. 
It was such a little hut, hardly larger than a coffin — the 
kind that they put folk in who are caught wearing the wrong 
uniform. The men who were following must be very near 
now — he must go on — but, there was the snow and the 
howling dog — and there was the little girl alone in the ruins 
of what had been a home. His head sank on his breast and 
an awful throb of pain cut, like a knife, through his arm. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 33 

Limply he sank iu a shapeless heap on the floor under the 
picture of the Saviour. His blood made a stain on the floor. 

The little girl wrinkled her forehead in perplexity. It 
was strange that a strong man should crumple up and go 
to sleep on one's floor — a strange man who talked little and 
stared at one out of father-looking eyes. Poor man ! The 
little girl reached out an experimental finger and touched 
his face. It was cold — that face. In her baby brain the 
little girl remembered that daddy had always covered her 
up when she was sleeping. Swiftly she dragged a blanket 
from the bed and tucked it snugly about his shoulders. It 
covered his muddy boots, his throbbing arm — a telltale arm, 
his uniform that was not his. With a face, strangely old for 
her years, the little girl sat down beside the man. Half- 
formulated in her mind was the thought that somewhere 
her daddy might be \jing — worn out and cold. She fell 
asleep, her head on the man's good shoulder. 

It may have been hours later — it may have been only 
minutes that a knock sounded at the door. The man's eyes 
unclosed slowly — ^his mind leaped even more slowly back to 
consciousness. Well, they had come — but, it wasn't exactly 
a surprise. His hand gripped his revolver under the blanket. 
One cannot hang a man who has shot himself. 

When there is even a gleam of suspense the minutes 
drag out unmercifully. For years, it seemed, there was ab- 
solute silence, and then noises began to sound — as if many 
men and perhaps horses were walking in the snow. The 
man wondered if they would see his footsteps and remem- 
bered that the falling flakes had drifted over them and cov- 
ered them. They might go on after all — there was a chance. 
If only he had blown out the candle before he fainted. There 
was another period of silence and then suddenly something 
crashed against the door. There was a snap as the rusted, 
ineSicient lock gave way and a body of soldiers staggered in. 
They were obviously hunting for someone. Like a message 
from a great distance he realized that he was the quarry. 
His hand gripped harder on the pistol. 



34 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The men paused uncertainly in the doorway. They saw 
a child sleeping with her head on a pale man's shoulder, a 
child who started as they trooped in and opened eyes widely 
brown. The man slept on — apparently. 

The men were at a loss — what can one say to a tiny 
girl? It was a moment before the leader broke into excited 
speech. 

"Little girl," he said to the child, "baby, a man — a bad 
man has run away in the dark. Has any man come here?" 

There was a tense stillness in the little hut before the 
child answered. The man gripped his revolver — it pressed 
coldly upon his heart. His eyelids flickered and he said a 
prayer in the depths of his soul for the little girl at home. 

The child rubbed her eyes unconcernedly and yawned — a 
sleepy, baby yawn. Who knows whether she was drowsy and 
did not know — or whether she remembered the father look 
in a stranger's eyes? 

Softly her thin little hand reached out and touched the 
man's hair. "Daddy," she murmured, "poor daddy — sick !" 

Perhaps somewhere her daddy lay sick. Perhaps some- 
where her daddy was cold and hungry. She began to cry. 

Warfare is hard, but one feels foolish at the thought of 
making a baby cry. Shamefacedly the men filed out. One 
dropped a knapsack of food and a gold piece on the table as 
he passed. 

Under the blanket the man's hand relaxed and the re- 
volver dropped heavily. The man's lips moved in a sudden 
grasping sob, but the tiny girl, with a hungry look in her big 
eyes, trotted over to the table and began to gnaw wolfishly 
at a bit of bread from the knapsack. 

From the wall the picture of the Saviour looked down. 
A smile seemed to hover on His face. 

Some hours later it stopped snowing. The dawn — a cold, 
grey dawn, crept up over the hill. In the heart of it, warmly, 
glowed a faint tinge of pinkish light. It was the promise 
of a new day ! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 35 



A NEW YEAR'S VISION 



Last night I dreamed a dream; 

I saw before me, white and stark and steep 
A hill. And all around it foamed a tide, 

Cruel, swift and deep. 
And standing there with weary head bent forward, 

I saw a man who breathed a tired sigh ; 
His face was drawn, his figure trembled darkly 

Against the sky. 

I heard upon the air a piercing scream. 

And, dashing to the river came a crowd 
Of men and boys and tiny crying babes, 

And women pale who sobbed their prayers aloud. 
And even as I looked with staring eyes, 

They plunged into the foam and then before 
I knew it, they had disappeared from sight — 

The stream was war ! 

Last night I dreamed a dream. 

I saw the old man fade away from sight, 
And in his place a smiling baby sat. 

The gloomy night 
Blossomed with stars, and all the river cold 

Lapped like a field of silver on the slope; 
And far above there hung a crescent moon — 

The moon was Hope. 



36 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



POWER 



(' ' There were many prominent men on 
board the Lusitania. " — New York papers.) 

The sea is wide and the sea is deep, 
And under its billows a host may sleep. 

A man may be great and bold and good, 

A man may be brave and true; 
His fame may grow and his praise may flow, 

From earth to the Heaven blue. 
And yet, when the land drops far astern. 

When the waves dash supreme and high, 
A man is a man — and nothing more — 

In a world that is sea and sky. 

A man may be firm as a mountain crag. 

And rich with a golden store; 
And in his hand he may hold a land, 

And yet, in a time of war, 
A bolt may strike on the craft he sails. 

And his efforts may futile be; 
For a man is a man — and that is all — 

In a world that is sky and sea. 

A man may write with a pen of flame, 

And speak with a tongue of steel ; 
And folk may sway at his words, and they 

May smother the thoughts they feel. 
And yet, alone in the sullen void. 

When God is the judge on high, 
A man is a man — and nothing more — 

Hemmed in by the sea and sky. 

Oh ! the sea is wide and the sea is deep, 
And under its wailing a host may sleep. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 37 



WHEN BETTY SMILES 



When Betty stands upon the stair, 

And smiles with lovely grace, 
A dancing band from fairy land, 

Brings magic to her face. 
And in the background, all unseen, 

A group of angels sing. 
Of sunshine gleaming in the fields. 

Of love, and youth, and spring. 

When Betty stands upon the stair. 

With tender, downcast eyes; 
I breathe a sigh, and wonder why 

A vague enchantment lies 
Within her soul, and though I were 

A king with wealth and land, 
I'd throw them by if I might be. 

The fan in Betty's hand! 

When Betty stands upon the stair. 

Her dimples come and go; 
And all my brain is filled with pain. 

Because I love her so ! 
My eyes, with pleading, mutely speak, 

The words I dare not say. . . . 
When Betty stands upon the stair, 

And smiles my heart away I 



38 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE SWORD'S FATE 



Swords they were, made of the finest of steel, 
Keen were they — so that the foeman might feel 
Pain of the sharpest — with death standing near — 
Terror, and horror, and torture, and fear. 

Swords they were — bright with a silver-blue light, 
Cold as the moonlight on ice in the night, 
Merciless — hewing at flesh and at bone, 
Killing in thousands — or killing alone. 

Swords they were — then in a moment of peace, 
Men laid them down for a bit of release 
From all the fighting — and they were alone. 
Dull and forgotten as fragments of stone. 

Swords they were, but in the fire's red heat 
They for the first time have suffered defeat. 
Poured into molds by a peace-loving race, 
They have come out with a plow's noble grace. 

Oh that the swords of the nations might be 
Melted in fires, that over the sea 
Victors might say of their blood-reddened spoil : 
"Swords they were — now they are tilling the soil !" 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 39 



THE PRESENCE 



Out go I to the road, alone, 

No friendly hand to guide me — 

And yet — I know that Some One stands 

With tender smile beside me. 

What though the way be dark and hard. 

And grim the skies above me — 

When I can know that Some One kind 

Is sure to help and love me? 

Out go I to the road, alone, 
And yet should harm befall me 
I know a Voice would reach my ear — 
That tender tones would call me ! 
What though the path at times be rough. 
And comrades false forsake me. 
When I am sure that Some One kind 
Is waiting Home to take me ! 



40 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE BREAD LINE 



The country lanes are filled with snow, the friendly stars 
are shining, 
The evergreens are straight and stiff against the evening 
skies ; 
And many wander in the night, whose lonely hearts are 
pining. 
For country homes, and country scenes, and smiling, 
tender eyes. 

The city streets are filled with slush, the city crowds are 
thronging. 
And some there are with mournful souls, and some are 
overjoyed. 
And some there are without a friend, for warmth and cloth- 
ing longing; 
The mighty, ragged army of the city's unemployed. 

The Bread Line ! In the dead of night with feet and fingers 
aching, 
Alone and friendless in a world of sorrow and of pain. 
They stand and wait for food to eat; but mother-hearts 
are breaking, 
And mother-prayers are asking that their boys come 
home again. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 41 



THE OLD CHINA PLATE 



IT EESTED high on a shelf, the old china plate, with 
the dust of years blown lightly over its surface. There 

were cracks running across its blue surface under the 
dust, and pictured on it there was a faded landscape with a 
gentle little lake kissing a gentle little hillside, with gentle 
little trees caressing a gentle little sky. 

"What a beautiful plate !" said the Collector Lady. "What 
a beautiful plate !" 

The Housekeeper sighed. "That ?" she questioned vaguely. 
"That? Why, that's only an old dish that went with 
Great-grandmother Bascomb's wedding china. It's not worth 
anything, I guess." She took it down carelessly and smoothed 
it with a soft duster. "See, it's covered with cracks. I'm 
sure it wouldn't stand much washing!" 

The Collector Lady's eye sparkled as she raised the old 
china plate in her hands. "It's very old," she told the 
Housekeeper, "and it's worth a good deal, cracks and all. I'll 
give you a whole new set of china for it !" Her voice broke 
with eagerness. 

The Housekeeper tightened her grip on the plate. She 
dusted it more carefully with the soft cloth. 

"My goodness!" she ejaculated. "Why, it's been stand- 
ing there for years, covered with dust. I didn't think any- 
one wanted it." 

The Collector Lady smiled ecstatically. Her hand 
stretched toward the dish. "A whole tea set for the one 
plate," she enticed; "a tea set with gold edges." In her 
mind's eye she could see a blue dish sitting triumphantly 
on a certain plate rail in a certain yellow-tinted dining-room. 
'*I can have it?" she questioned. 



42 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The Housekeeper clasped the old china plate more closely. 
A perfect fire of possession burned in her eyes. 

"Why, I wouldn't part with it for anything !" she ex- 
claimed almost angrily. "It was part of Great-grandmother 
Bascomb's wedding china !" 

And yet it had stood on her shelf covered with dust for 
years. 

It isn't only old china plates that suddenly grow valuable 
under a pair of admiring eyes. It isn't only cracked blue 
dishes that stand idly on the shelf, covered with dust, until 
some person with a collector's insight discovers that there is 
real value under the dirt. 

I once knew a mother — the kind of a mother who does 
everything for the comfort and well-being of her family. 
She had three grown-up children who loved her in a desultory 
fashion, but managed fairly well to keep her on the closet 
shelf. When they had dinner parties the mother was usually 
in the kitchen helping with the work; when they had callers 
in the evening the mother was gently but firmly shooed away 
to bed. 

This went on for some time. The mother, a bit resentful 
at first, began to realize that her place was in the dust-filled 
corner. She effaced herself very successfully. 

One day a girl came to live in the one large hotel that 
the town boasted. She was the kind of a girl that attracted 
attention, for she had a great deal of money, wore imported 
clothes and drove her own little grey racing car through the 
shady streets. She was all alone in the world, but she never 
spoke of being lonely — and folk envied her. 

One night the girl went to call on the family and found 
the mother alone in her little den, darning the family stock- 
ings. It was her first call, and as she saw the little white- 
haired figure in the light of the homely lamp, a lump rose 
in her throat. She sat down near the mother and began to 
talk. It was an hour later that one of the daughters came 
in and found them. 

"Why, mother !" she exclaimed just a bit accusingly, "you 
didn't tell me." 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 43 

The girl raised her eyes from the small figure in front 
of her. 

"It was my fault," she laughed, "I wouldn't let her tell 
that I was here. We've had such a good time!" Her tone 
was full of regret. 

"But aren't you tired?" questioned the daughter rather 
sharply. 

"Why, no, dear," answered her mother. For the first 
time in years she did not take the hint. "Why, no, dear ! 
We've been having such a lovely talk." Her tones, too, held 
regret. 

The daughter opened her lips, but on second thought 
closed them. 

When the girl was walking down to her little car the 
daughter walked beside her with a vague question in her 
heart. Mother had seemed possessed ! She had laughed and 
talked and told charming little stories of her girlhood. Why, 
the daughter hardly understood her ! She looked at the girl 
beside her — at the modish dress, at the waiting car. Why, 
mother had monopolized the conversation, had ignored her 
visitor's importance. The girl must say something to show 
her delight in the call. 

"It was nice of you to come this evening," she said — 
"when you have so many other things to do. Oh, how I envy 
you, your car, and your clothes, and — everything." 

The girl looked at her companion sharply, then she turned 
away. Her voice trembled when she spoke. 

"Don't — say — envy," she gulped. "Don't you dare ! Why, 
you have a mother. I'd give anything I ever possessed if I 
could have just one tiny speck of her for my own. I can't 
remember — " Her voice choked and she drew her hand across 
her eyes. 

It's the familiar things that we sometimes pass 
over and leave on the shelf to grow dusty while we look 
for beauty in other directions. It's so much nicer to go 
to an art gallery and exclaim over the paintings — so much 
more stimulating than it is to look out of your bedroom 



44 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

window and appreciate the view that you can see every day. 
It's so much easier to admire a girl that is passing tlian it 
is to see the smile in the eyes of a girl you have known all 
your life. 

Oh, friends of mine, if you have a rare piece of china on 
your closet shelf — ^you know what I mean — don't wait for a 
stranger to tell you that it is valuable. 

Open your eyes and appreciate it yourself before it is too 
late. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 45 



THE CITY STREETS AT NIGHT 



THE arch lights gleam across the dark of pavement and 
of street, and from the slums to Central Park the 
sound of marching feet rings out across the city's 
waste, its sorrow and its fear — its sound of laughter, double 
faced, its wailing and its tear. A beggar woman asks for 
alms, an engine whistles by, a call of "fire" brings alarms, 
and yet — the movements fly so fast that not a clock on earth 
could hold them back for spite. And some mark loss, or 
death, or birth. The City Streets at Night ! 

Above, the trains go roaring by, the subway pants below 
like some great beast about to die; the trolleys clatter slow 
from block to block, and taxis dart and wagons fill the way — 
and all the city's throbbing heart is crying for the day. A 
little newsboy lonely stands and sells his penny ware, he blows 
upon his purple hands, and meets the frozen stare of men 
in broadcloth and in fur who pass him coldly by, and in his 
heart queer feelings stir — he wonders vaguely, "why?" Oh, 
many walk with smiling eyes, but many walk in fright, and 
many curse with feeble cries the City Streets at Night. 

A sound of music flutters sweet across the dreary stones, 
and figures light on dancing feet are swaying to its tones. 
And folk are sipping costly drink, while just across the way 
some mother, starving, tries to think as small lives slip away. 
For all on top the way is clear and brilliant to the sight — 
but underneath there is no cheer. The City Streets at Night ! 

The arc lights gleam across a mass of buildings grim and 
tall, and many folk with sorrows pass and smile upon it all. 
And many folk whose hearts are dead are crying in their 
pain; and many folk who once have fled are creeping home 
again. But sometimes, in the heedless throng, with gentle, 
downcast eyes, the Christ, Himself, may walk along where 
songs and shouts arise. And in the tumult and the woe a 
whisper, stealing light, may be a prayer for those who know 
the City Streets at Night. 



46 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE LINCOLN SPIRIT 



WHEN I shut my eyes I can sometimes see, vaguely, 
the picture of myself when I was a little girl in 
primary school. And very often this picture takes 
the form of a small blue sailor-suited figure standing in front 
of a big portrait finished in sepia and framed in brown. That 
picture hung on the wall of the first schoolroom that I can 
remember, and the kindly face of Abraham Lincoln smiled 
down from it. 

The first time I saw the picture, I wondered who the 
homely man could be. His face was furrowed with creases 
and covered with a stubby beard. It reminded me of an old 
mountain near my aunt's home — a mountain covered with 
rough foliage and dented with rocky cliffs. Perhaps in my 
little girl mind I did not formulate the thought clearly. 

The second time I looked at the picture I noticed the 
eyes, and somehow, unexplainably, my thoughts went again to 
the mountain. I did not think of the foliage or cliffs or hol- 
lows, however; for my mind now swept to the loftiness of it 
and the sunlight that crept softly over it, and the birds that 
built their nests in the shadow. 

When I grew a bit older I began to read in my primer 
stories about the great man. I spelled out the words that 
told how he went miles to borrow a book, hard miles that 
lay through snowdrifts and unbroken roads. I read stories 
that spoke of his talks to dying soldiers, of his pardons to 
condemned men, of his grief over the great Civil War. When 
I began to read history I pondered over his Gettysburg ad- 
dress; and when I was in growing-long skirts I read books 
that talked about him, that told of his sense of humor, his 
wistfulness, his love of humanity. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 47 

During the time that I have been writing to you, friends 
of mine, I have come in contact with not a few people who 
wanted an education more than they wanted anything else, 
almost, in the whole world. I have met, through letters, 
boys and girls who have sacrificed many things to learn. I 
have heard stories of prayer and work combined that might 
measure up to Lincoln's standard. 

I have read stories, and had stories told to me, of men 
and women who were drifting through life with heavy cares 
resting on their shoulders, and tired hearts lying like lead 
within their breasts. I have had them tell me their sorrows 
and ask for comfort and a bit of help. Yes, I have come 
in contact with some deeply troubled people ! 

And then, too, there have been pen-and-ink friends who 
have had hearts full of love for everyone, from the neigh- 
bor's child next door down to the beggar on the street corner, 
carrying the warmth of their own hearts to the coldness of 
some poverty-stricken garret. But though I have met such 
people and read of them in stories, I have never heard of any 
boys or girls, men or women, who have won an education 
over such frightful odds as this man, or who have been able, 
as he, to jest while their trouble was deepest, while their 
heart was loaded to the bursting point with tears; who have 
loved black and white, rich and poor, friends and foes as did 
Abraham Lincoln. 

Sometimes, as I look around the busy New York streets, 
the noisy subway, the self-centered little cities that appear 
in every state, I wish that some of the Lincoln spirit could 
come back again and invade the earth with a bombardment 
of cheerfulness and gentleness. I wish that the gruff man 
who takes the only seat in the car while a little white-haired 
lady is standing, could feel a bit of the warm-heartedness that 
swept over battlefields and freed slaves. I wish that the girls 
who make scathing remarks from behind the shadow of their 
palms, could feel a little of the charity and love that made 
one man lay down his very life for a country of comparative 
strangers. I wish that the wise ones who from their own 



48 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

hearthstones try to settle the affairs of the nations could lean 
with a little more humility — as Lincoln did — on God ! 

I knew a small boy once who hated to go to school. Every 
morning just before nine o'clock he developed strange symp- 
toms — headaches, and toothaches, and backaches, that dis- 
appeared marvelously after the ringing of the final bell. 
During his school hours he concentrated chiefly on weirdly 
drawn pictures and stiff balls of paper. He refused to do 
home work, balked utterly on studying. His mother, trying 
to teach by love, was in despair ; his father gave up the thank- 
less task after many spankings. 

Then, at the psychological moment, someone gave the boy 
a book about Lincoln. It told of the early struggles, the life 
of the young man, finally of his presidential career and his 
noble death. The boy read it carefully, and then, to the sur- 
prise of his parents, began to do his school work. 

"Some day" — he confided to his mother — "I may be 
President. Look at Lincoln — he didn't have half my chance !" 

Look at Lincoln ! He didn't have half the chance of 
most of us, but the few hours that he stole from his busy 
boy life were made to count. And now, after a short chain of 
years, the nation spends a golden day doing honor to him 
and people mention his name with tenderness and perhaps a 
bit of awe. Look at the rugged mountain face, and the 
mouth that is wistful, and think of the disappointments he 
went through; think of the strain of seeing a country — his 
own country — going to pieces, and knowing that the frag- 
ments lay in his own hand. And then, friends o' mine, look 
at the eyes. The eyes that carry you to a mountain top with 
peace and calm and bird-songs. 

Oh, girls — young and old — and boys, too, catch the Lincoln 
spirit and make good. You have twice his chance. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 49 



REMEMBER? 



Eemember when we two were small, 
We uster stand beside the wall, 
My arm around your waist, and all — 
Eemember ? 

Eemember how we uster dream, 
We uster watch the sunlight beam. 
An' I could see your eyes agleam 
Deep in the shadows of the stream? 

Eemember how we lingered there? 
The sunlight sparkled on your hair, 
I never saw you half so fair — 
Eemember ? 

Eemember how our eyes could see, 
The promise of a day to be. 
When you would care for only me 
Through life, until eternity? 

Remember how a quarrel grew, 
Just out of nothing? An' we two 
Were crying, an' you slapped me — you ! 
Eemember ? 

Eemember what you said that day. 
When I began to go away? 
You said, "I love you, Billy, stay!" 
In earnest, half, an' half in play. 

Eemember when we two were small. 
We stood and watched the scarlet fall 
Of leaves ... I kissed you, that was all. 
Eemember? 



50 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE RAIN 



After the heat it came, the rain — 

With drops that were huge and bright; 

And the weary earth raised its drooping head, 

And smiled through the cloudy night. 

And people offered an earnest prayer, 

Who never had prayed before; 

And beggars, grasping beneath the sky. 

Laughed out as they asked for more. 

And, kneeling low, by her baby's couch, 

Who was dying from heat and pain; 

A mother sobbed, "It has come in time — 

"Thank God for the blessed rain I" 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



51 



EGYPT— THEN AND NOW 



Sharply the noise of cannon breaks 

The stillness of the day — 
The sullen wreaths of powder smoke 

Curl blackly far away — 
An ancient building totters — falls — 

And bloodstained men dash by, 
A pistol snaps — and some one screams, 

And, "In God's name !" they cry. 

'Twas many, many years ago, 

When, coming from afar, 
A gentle mother brought her child— 

The glimmer of a star 
Lay in her eyes, and when she sang. 

The Baby smiling lay — 
He little dreamed of care or pain — 

But watched the sunlight play 
Among the waving leaves of green. 

And on the dusty way. 

Perhaps, beneath some curving arch, 

She stilled Him into sleep — 
Perhaps, upon some temple floor. 

He, smiling, learned to creep — 
And when, perhaps, the time had come. 

When he must seek his way, 
He left the shadow of his smile — 

It lingers there today, 
In shady nook and desert pool, 

For — guns to sweep away. 



58 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Harshly, the shrieks of dying men, 

And horses deep in pain. 
Creep through the land, and mothers' tears, 

Beat down like autumn rain. 
The temple shows a jagged scar, 

The desert pool is dry — 
And blood, blood, blood is on the land. 

As, "In God's name !" they cry. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 53 



YOUR LAUGHTER 



I hear your happy laughter ringing sweet, 

Across my dreams — and as I wake from dreaming, 
The echo creeps about, and daylight beaming 

Is but a phantom coming up to greet 

Your laughter; and the daisies at my feet 

With gentle mirth and fun and love are gleaming. 
And, yes, the very summer breeze is seeming 

To laugh with you and make the day complete. 

Oh, if the world were like an autumn shower. 

When sodden leaves fall brownly on the grass 

And skies were dull, and winds like sobs were ringing: 

If I could hear your laughter for one hour, 

The heartache and the wistfulness would pass — 
And every wind would be an organ singing. 



54 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE FABLE OF THE 
THREE ELMS 



The North Wind spoke to three sturdy elms, 
And, "Now you are dead !" said he ; 

"I have blown a blast till the snow whirled past, 
And withered your leaves, and see 

You are brown and old and your boughs are cold !' 
And he sneered at the elm trees three. 

The first elm spoke in a hollow tone, 

(For the snow lay deep and white) ; 
"You think we are dead, North Wind ?" he said, 

"Why we sleep — as you sleep at night. 
Beneath the snow lie my sturdy roots. 

They grip on the friendly earth; 
And I rest — till another year!" said he. 

And he shook with a noisy mirth. 

The second elm laughed a hearty laugh, 

And, "North Wind," he cried in glee, 
"Beneath my bark glows a living spark, 

The sap of a healthy tree. 
My boughs are bare and my leaves are gone. 

But — what have I got to fear ? 
For the winter time is my time of rest. 

And I sleep till another year!" 

The third elm spoke and his voice was sweet. 

And kind as the summer sea; 
"Oh, Wind," he said, "We are far from dead — 

The God in whose hand we be 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 55 

Looks down, with love, from the winter sky, 

And sends us His sun to cheer, 
If we had no snow there would be no spring — 

We rest till another year!" 

The three elms rocked in the stinging blast. 

And under the heavy snow. 
Their roots were warm from the freezing storm. 

And safe from the winds that blow. 
They smiled in their hearts and their leafless boughs. 

Spread over the frosty way, 
For they knew that the God of the forest trees. 

Would watch through each winter day. 

The North Wind uttered a frosty sigh. 

As the snow blew far and free ; 
And his weary eyes sought the winter skies, 

And, "Mighty is God !" said he. 
"To die or live are His gifts to give !" 

And he smiled at the elm trees three. 



56 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE VOICE OF VALLEY FORGE 



THE Span'ard sat with his feet in the gutter and mused. 
His thin hands lay as still as some bluish metal in his 
lap. On the corner an arc light gleamed fitfully, but 
the Span'ard's part of the gutter was dark and gloom-filled. 

It was a bitter night. Fine snow slipped down over the 
jagged roofs and piled up in dim corners. The fine sleet bit 
sharply into the skin, and brought stinging frozen tears to 
the eyes. Women on the avenue, gorgeous in velvet and fur, 
shivered and drew their wraps a bit closer; but ragged little 
boys! Well, ragged little boys just huddled down in the 
gutter — the most convenient one — and stopped thinking. 

They called him the Span'ard, the other children, be- 
cause he was dark and slender and quick-tempered; because 
he spoke the tongue of an alien ; because he dreamed through 
the long days and gestured marvelously with his hands. They 
told him that he was not wanted in their games, told him 
that his father was dead, that he didn't have *^no mother" 
nor "no home." And the Span'ard, understanding only a 
fourth of what they said, fought half-heartedly and crept 
away with drooping head. Sometimes he found a warm 
doorway, or a packing case, or a barrel to sleep in. Some- 
times he earned a stray coin by carrying bundles. But folks 
seldom cared to trust packages to a dirty-faced foreign child, 
even though his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were plead- 
ing. 

The wind, with a low wailing note in it, swept around 
the corner, and the Span'ard drew his ragged coat a bit closer. 
"Oh," he shivered, "et ees coo-ld !" 

"It was colder," said a voice behind him, "it was colder 
at Valley Forge." 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 57 

Quite unexplainedly the Span'ard understood the words, 
and he looked around nervously into the lurking shadows. 
He could see nothing but a dim row of unpleasant-looking 
houses behind the screen of whirling snowflakes. 

"Whare air you ?" he whispered through chattering teeth ; 
"Who air you?" 

Out of the darkness, so close to him that the Span'ard 
jumped, came the voice. "It was at Valley Forge," said the 
voice, "that the soldiers crouched over fires in the bitter 
cold, and yet could not keep warai. It was at Valley Forge 
that their feet left blood marks in the ice and snow." 

The Span'ard listened, fascinated by the well modulated, 
kind tones. He forgot to wonder where the voice came from. 
"They weer coold," he murmured, "lak me?" 

"Colder," said the voice, "and much unhappier. They 
knew that the fate of a country lay in their hands. They 
knew that the hearts and souls of g'-eat men were behind 
them — they knew! No wonder they shivered with cold and 
fear." 

The Span'ard huddled closer into his thin coat and put 
the fingers of one blue hand into his mouth. 

"Thees Vally Forge," he mumbled, "where ees thees Vally 
Forge? What ees et?" 

Through the murmur of the wind, the voice, clear as a 
bell, answered the question. 

"It is a place," said the voice, "where eleven thousand 
troops once spent the winter. There they froze until half of 
them were unfit for active duty, until a large majority died 
from exposure." There was a quiet sadness in the calm words. 

"But," the Span'ard took his fingers from his mouth and 
moved them stiffly, "but why should they stay at thees Vally 
Forge? Ef eet weer coo-ld and ef they weer mak' to die?" 
He waited patiently for an answer. 

"They stayed there," the voice told him, "they stayed 
there because they were fighting for their country and for 
liberty!" 

The Span'ard stared vacantly in front of him. "Leeb- 



58 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

erty !" he repeated. The word meant nothing to him. 'TLieeb- 
erty — what ees et, thees leeberty ?" he asked. 

The voice, just a bit stern, came to his ears. 

"It means," said the voice, "freedom to make your own 
laws, to worship your own God in your own way, to live 
your own life. It means that you are equal to, just as good 
as, the men who ride in their own cars. It means that all 
citizens are equal." 

The Span'ard was frankly puzzled. How could he bo 
as good as men who wore fur overcoats and ate at least three 
meals a day? How could he be equal to them? They ivere 
warm. He shivered convulsively, and a wave of hatred for 
the world, the fur-coated men, even for the unseen voice, 
surged up in his heart. 

"We air not equal !" he shrilled, "we air not equal. They 
air happy — an' not coo-ld !" A sob broke through the last 
word. After all, the Span'ard was only a child — a homeless 
child. 

For a moment there was a great silence. Even the moan 
of the wind grew still, and the Span'ard cried softly while 
the great tear drops froze diamond-like on his cheeks. Then 
suddenly, like the touch of a dream, a light but firm hand 
fell on his shoulder. 

"They froze at Valley Forge," said the voice, "for lib- 
erty, for equality, for their country. And although they 
died, their spirits lived to see the dream come true — partly. 
It is a big land, and it is a good land, but the ideas have 
gone a little wrong — that's all. You aren't the only one in 
this country that is freezing and homeless, little Span'ard, 
and perhaps because you are cold and hungry you may lead 
the way to a new liberty that will be far greater, far more 
beautiful. Perhaps you yourself, a new American, may help 
to start a new America!" 

Somehow, vaguely, the Span'ard knew that the voice had 
gone away. Certainly the kind hand pressure had left his 
shoulder. He was colder than ever now, but in his soul there 
was a glow of light. Perhaps he was going to help. Perhaps 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 59 

even his coldness would be the key to this very liberty that 
they spoke of . . . . His head sank between his shoulders. 

Sometime later, perhaps a half hour later, two policemen 
walked down the dark street. "Shure," said one of them, 
"it's niver before been such a cold twinty-second of Feb- 
ruary \" But the other did not hear him. He had darted 
forward and was kneeling beside a small heap in the snow. 

"This has gotta stop," he said in a hard dry voice, "it's 
gotta stop. Som'pin must be done ! It's another frozen kid." 

The Span'ard, with a great effort, opened his stiff lips. 
"I ain't a frozen kid," he whispered faintly, "I'm a 'Merican 
kid." 

His eyes closed on the first glimmer of a new liberty. 



60 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



IN THE DARK 



FOR several days this week I was forced to lie in bed 
with bandages over my eyes. At other times, when 
I have had to stay in bed I have been able to read or 
write, or at least look out of the window; but this time the 
situation was a new one, and more or less unique. After a few 
hours it proved to be very monotonous. 

When one is alone in the dark the minutes loom ahead 
like vast periods of time, and the clock ticks off its seconds 
very slowly. Thinking is the only diversion that offers itself. 

I have all my life thought, I suppose; sometimes with 
great intensity, sometimes with carelessness and almost lack 
of interest ; but I have always been able, when I grew weary 
of a thought, to turn to some other fascinating occupation. 
This week, while I was lying in bed with my eyes bandaged, 
there was no other occupation. True, there was a view out- 
side my window — but I couldn't see the view; and there 
were bookcases beside the wall, but I couldn't see them 
either. 

At first I grew rather tired of the enforced quiet, but 
when one day had dragged past on slow feet my constant 
thinking began to take effect. Little details of neglected 
work began to come forward in my mind, and fragments of 
stories that I am some day going to write blended into com- 
plete plots. Small verses that I had forgotten to remember 
came back to me, and tiny snatches of conversation that had 
drifted out of my mind crept to the foreground. When I 
could take the bandages off and was once more able to read, 
and write, and just look at things, I found that the house 
of my mind was in better order than it had been for a long 
time, with the ideas neatly pigeonholed and the empty places 



BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 61 

swept clean. But it had taken me a time in the dark to 
do it. 

In the dark — A great many people fear the dark, I 
think. They people it with harsh noises, and vague forms, 
and creeping fears. They look for shadows grimly approach- 
ing when the moonlight is at its brightest; and they glance 
nervously behind them at the least snapping of a twig. They 
think that the dark frightens them, but in reality it is fear 
and imagination that grip at their heartstrings. If people 
would only look at the dark sensibly, they would perhaps 
realize that it is a very soothing, restful thing, a time that 
prepares one for the glaring brightness of the dawn. 

I once knew a little live-wire sort of a girl, with taut 
nerves and searching eyes and queer, quick little ways of 
speech. We used to say she was "temperamental." One 
day I was walking with her through a crowded store when 
suddenly she turned and put a nervous little hand on my arm. 
"Don't you ever get tired," she asked me, "of this eternal 
rushing around? See the people in the store, every one 
dashing about as if their lives depended upon it ! Every one 
hunting for different things. It's that way at school too, 
and more or less at home. Don't you ever get tired of it?" 

I admitted that I did. "But," I questioned, "how can 
I avoid getting tired?" 

"I used to wonder that myself," answered the girl "until 
I struck upon a scheme that has worked out splendidly for 
me. When I am tired of all the noise and confusion and 
turmoil, I go away into my own room and pull down the 
shade and shut my eyes, and think. After I have been there 
just a few minutes things begin, to straighten out and the 
kinks in my mind become straight. After an hour I am 
rested." 

Here in the city life seems to be brightly lighted — a gay, 
glittering period of time. The nights are made brilliant 
with electric signs, and huge arc lights make the darkest 
hours as bright as day. It isn't the easiest thing in the 
world to drift away from all of the noise and brightness and 



62 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

find a quiet, dark nook. Perhaps that is why so very many 
people look white around the mouth, with strained, tired 
eyes. Perhaps that is why so many men and women every 
year have nervous breakdowns. Perhaps that is why a few, 
who only seem a few because they are among so many, com- 
mit suicide. They can't find a quiet, dark nook for rest. 
And yet some people fear the dark! 

Have you ever walked along the edge of a ravine, or 
maybe a steep hill, when the way was dark and the walking 
difficult? One night, a dark, almost stormy night in April, 
I was walking beside a railway embankment. As the way 
was new to me I was not frightened, for though it was dark, 
and though I knew that I was high above the even ground, 
the path seemed level and smooth for my feet. I walked 
safely until I reached my destination, with never a worry 
on my mind. 

The next morning I took the same walk back to my 
home, and in the merciless glare of the sun I shuddered as 
I saw the dangerous way my feet had traveled. There had 
evidently been a washout along the path, for jagged pitfalls 
lurked in the dark comers where crumbling earth had slid 
down the sides of the hill. I had need to be careful even 
in broad daylight on that homeward walk, for I feared that 
my step might falter and that my foot might slip, plunging 
me far down, a broken heap, on the stones below. And yet 
in the dark I had walked safely without fear. It seemed 
as if some presence must have been near me to see that I 
did not stray from the path. 

There is a presence, I think, that walks near those of us 
who dwell in darkness, though they may dwell there a long 
time or but a very short time — though their pilgrimage may 
be only a walk along the top of a steep hill, before the moon 
has risen. This presence is a courage-giving presence who 
can erase the troubles from a disordered mind and eliminate 
the pitfalls from a broken path. 

Some very beautiful things come out of the dark I think. 
All the Fanny Crosby's hymns were bom in that way, and 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 68 

she is not the only genius who made wonderful masterpieces 
with eyes closed to the beauties of a world. There are 
authors and sculptors and evangelists. Perhaps that is why 
there is something so calm and peaceful and trustful about 
such work. 

Oh, friends of mine, it's a very terrible thing to be blind 
to the glories of a golden world, but it's a very wonderful 
experience to lie with your eyes bandaged for a few days. 
There are so many things that eyes — real eyes — cannot see, 
that you come to understand only in that way. Some time, 
when the world seems just a little too much for you, go into 
a room and pull down the shades and shut your eyes and 
think. Perhaps, if you do that, you may feel the guiding 
presence that is always near in the shadows. 



64 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



A PRAYER 

God, 

If the little souls of kings 
Must fight for gold, for petty gain; 

If men must died — and women pale, 
Must suffer hunger, fear and pain. 

Oh ! God, if horses scream in fright, 
If battles bring their tale of loss; 

Help Thou the ones who did no wrong- 
Let not the children bear the cross ! 

If Anguish standing grim and pale 

Beside the form of hatred red. 
Makes gentle, brooding faces harsh. 

As word is brought of needless dead. 
God, let not famine tear their forms. 

Let not the babies friendless roam; 
Stretch out Thy hand, in Mercy's name, 

And give each one a sheltered home ! 

God, 

If the towns curl up in smoke. 

If work of years be all undone. 
If, in the frenzy of the fight, 

The killing lasts from sun to sun. 
If harvests drenched with blood are reaped. 

Where golden wheat has swayed before, 
Let not the tiny boys and girls, 

Add to the sacrifice of War! 

Dear Father, women-folk may weep. 
And ask in prayer for swift release; 

And men may sob — but they are men . . . 
Grant Thou the little children peace! 




c E « „ u o c E 
OO 8 2-; 2 

^ H < 



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REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



65 



A SONG 



Soft the wind is on the heather, 

Lassie mine — 
In the sky the stars are glowin', 

And their shine 
Makes me think of eyes, that glancin' 
To my own with smile entrancin'. 
Set my very heart to dancin', 

Lassie mine! 

Soft the moon is on the heather. 

Lassie dear; 
And a nightingale is singin'. 

High and clear; 
Can ye hear his notes a-playin' 
In the sky, like angels prayin'? 
'Xove, love, love!" his soul is sayin'- 

Lassie dear. 



66 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE BROKEN PROMISE 



You told me, "Yes, I'll do it !" 

And then forgot your word; 
You later said : "I had no time," 

Perhaps: "I never heard!" 
And yet the task was very small, 

And not so hard to do. 
And, dear, because you broke your word 

You hurt my faith in you. 

You told me, "No, I won't forget," 

And then you straightway did ; 
And, underneath a sorry smile. 

My hurt was safely hid. 
And yet, because you did not do 

That little task of mine, 
The brightness of a lovely faith 

Has somehow ceased to shine. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



67 



THE MADONNA OF THE STREET 



An artist dreamed a dream of power. 

When fame would seek his door; 
When folk would buy his smallest work. 

And clamor loud for more. 
And so with brush and color box 

He strived to make a start. 
To paint a picture with a soul. 

With beauty, and a heart. 

He painted ladies rich and fair. 

He made his sketches well; 
He covered yards of canvas fine. 

With strokes that always tell. 
And yet, each picture mocked his aim. 

Each portrait that he made 
Was cast aside as "rather nice," 

When it was first displayed. 

He painted favorites of the stage. 

He painted maid and queen; 
He searched each marble palace hall. 

Until, when he was seen. 
The people laughed at him and said: 

"Here comes an artist true. 
Who follows but the god of art, . 

In search of something new." 

For in his search of beauty rare. 

The artist in his zeal. 
Forgot the greatest thing of all. 

Forgot that none can feel 



68 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The depths of life — of anything — 
Nor could success be scored, 

Until a heart turned toward the sun, 
And eyes looked to the Lord. 

The artist dreamed a dream of power, 

That spoke of untold wealth; 
He dreamed of eyes with curving brows 

And lips that bloomed with health. 
And so, he left the city vast. 

And sought the country clear; 
And as he sat beneath the trees. 

His dream seemed almost near. 

He painted Dresden shepherdess, 
He painted milkmaids tall; 
He painted child and farmer's lass, 
He painted one and all. 
And when his pictures new were shown 
The critics stopped to say, 
"It's very good, indeed it is !" 
Before they turned away. 

He painted wind-swept country lanes. 

And maidens dressed in brown; 
He painted girls in tender green. 

Where sunlight flickered down 
Between the leaves; he painted trees 

With dryads in their shade; 
And still his power was not won — 

And he was sore afraid. 

"My hair is turning grey," said he, 
"And still — oh, still afar 
My fortunes shine to lure me on. 
As distant as a star." 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 69 

And with a sigh he sought again 

The city's crowded way; 
And deep despair M^as in his heart, 

He did not think to pray. 

The artist dreamed a dream of power, 

And, waking from his sleep — 
He felt the coldness of the hour. 

He saw the darkness deep; 
And something bade him take his brush. 

His box of colors neat; 
His canvas and his oils and tubes, 

And seek the quiet street. 

He walked past many mansions fine, 

Beneath their spreading trees; 
And yet, a voice seemed telling him, 

"Your work is not — in these." 
And so with hopes that wrung his heart. 

With mingled doubts and fears; 
He reached at last a narrow street, 

The place of want and tears. 

A tiny church loomed through the dusk, 

Like some grey spot of rest; 
And on the steps the artist saw, 

A woman poorly dressed; 
And in her arms she held a babe. 

And tried to still its cries. 
And through the dusk the artist saw 

The lovelight in her eyes. 

Her face was pale and very thin. 

Her lips were drawn and white; 
Her hair lay on her waxen brow. 

As black and dim as night. 



70 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

And when the artist saw that face, 

There, rooted to the spot, 
He prayed and swift the memory came 

Of all he had forgot. 

The artist made a picture dull, 

With background dark and cold; 
The simple picture of a girl — 

A girl both young and old. 
A baby slept against her breast, 

And, oh ! her eyes were sweet — 
And then he named it, standing there, 

"Madonna of the Street." 

The artist dreamed a dream of power. 

And, lo, his dream came true; 
And all at once he felt a truth. 

As dreamers often do. 
He knew that wealth was not the best. 

And oh, he did not care ! 
For on his knees he fell, and gave 

His heart to God in prayer. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 71 



THE DOORWAY OF THE 
OLD HOME 



The doorway of the old home 

Is stained with age and small; 
And in the early twilight, 

When purple shadows fall 
Across the little doorstep. 

My half-shut eyes can see 
A row of clear-cut visions. 

That stand and smile at me. 

The doorway of the old home 

Has often opened wide 
For schoolgirl and for student, 

For mother and for bride; 
And soldier feet have traveled. 

While eyes were dim with pain. 
Across the narrow threshold. 

That ne'er came back again. 

The doorway of the old home 

Has heard love's stories told; 
Has seen the splendid autumn 

Of people growing old. 
And baby hands have fumbled 

At lock and heavy key; 
And feeble arms stretched from it 

To children out at sea. 



72 BEAL PEOPLE — ASP DBEAMS 

The doorway of the old home 

Is stained with age and small; 
And yet in glowing summer, 

In winter and in fall, 
It gives a cheery welcome, 

And knowing eyes may see 
The row of clear-cut visions 

That stand and smile at me. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 73 



THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS 



AEICH girl, who, so everybody says, should be happy, 
left her home and ran away. She was found in a 
day or two and brought back, sorry and repentant, 
but with very firm convictions. When a reporter, one of 
those gimlet-eyed, question-asking gentlemen that we read 
of, asked her why she left her home, she told him that she 
was in search of happiness. 

I quote her words from one of the daily papers: 

'Teople say that I am rich, but that does not mean that 
I am happy. Daughters of rich people are not always happy. 
I didn't have anything but money; I couldn't buy happiness 
with that. It didn't do me any good except to buy fine 
clothes. I wanted love. I wanted a home. If I ever run 
away again it will be to elope !" 

Oh, girls ! when you see the ones "who toil not" rolling 
by in their luxurious cars, and when you feel the tiniest 
bit of envy tug at your heart strings, remember this girl 
who had ever}i:hing money could buy and feel sorry for her. 

I am going to tell you about a very sad contrast that 
I saw the other day as I was walking down a city street. 
A funeral was passing by; one of those elaborate funerals 
with wagons full of flowers and a string of carriages that 
reached perhaps two blocks. In the first carriage sat three 
ladies, robed in elaborate mourning garb of crepe and silk. 
Two were hard-faced, cold-looking women, who stared haugh- 
tily over the heads of the crowd, but the third, a pretty- 
blond, doll-like little person, smiled as her dark-lashed eyes 
swept the throng. She seemed to be enjoying her small 
distinction very much. 

I had hardly walked half a block when another funeral 



74 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

crept down a side street. It was a very unpretentioiTS affair, 
and only one clumsy home-made wreath of spring blossoms 
gave a touch of color and light, A single carriage followed 
the hearse, and as it passed I saw shrinking back into the 
dim corner of the seat a young woman dressed in a faded 
black cotton dress. She was very pale, but her eyes had 
red rings around them that told of long weeping, and her 
thin arms clasped a tiny baby close to her heart. 

As I brushed my hands across my eyes I seemed to see 
the other shining procession placed beside this one. And 
then I fell to moralizing, a habit one acquires in the city. 
I thought that the man, the rich man, had not been able to 
buy happiness, but that the poor man going shabbily to his 
last resting place had been able, with all his poverty, to buy 
love. 

I once read a story by a very idealistic modern author. 
It was the reconstructed story of King Cophetua and the 
Beggar Maid. Tennyson says: 

In robe and crown the king stepped down. 
To meet and greet her on her way. 

But he never told us just what the beggar maid thought. 

Now, in the story that I read, the beggar maid became 
queen, and for a little while she enjoyed herself. She was 
feted and praised. Great gifts were showered upon her, 
and she was dressed in satin and silk. But after a while the 
queen tired of her royal life, of the pomp and ceremony, 
of the exquisite clothes and wonderful jewels. Then one 
day when the king and his court were hunting, the wander- 
lust caught her, so she laid her rich apparel in a cedar chest, 
and donned the ragged gipsy dress in which the king had 
first won her. And with a last lingering look at the things 
that money could buy, she left the palace for the free, happy 
life that she loved. 

The story had a great charm for me because it was so 
well written, but I wondered how many of us would have 
had the courage to follow the beggar maid's example. How 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 75 

many of us, if the choice were ours, would cast our lot in 
the paths of humble happiness? The glitter of wealth is 
an attraction not to be scoffed at, for if the heart be right it 
can add new worlds of travel and music and education and 
beauty to our enjoyment. Yet alone it is nothing. 

I know another story that I am going to tell you while 
I am in the story-telling mood. This one is about the lord 
of a great estate, whose wide acres gave all that his heart 
could desire of this world's goods. His splendid manor 
house was a home of luxury and ease, though not of con- 
tentment. So its master went in search of happiness. The 
elusive little sprite seemed to hover always Just out of his 
reach; teasing, alluring, but unattainable. And the lord of 
the manor became pale and wan for the want of it. He 
traveled to distant lands and cities over seas and mountains, 
and through forests. He tasted all the pleasures of the 
cities and the wilds. He spent lavishly only to find that 
his money could not buy happiness. 

At last he returned, weary and dissatisfied, and as he 
crossed a field by his old home he saw a man plowing. He 
watched the work for a moment, and suddenly a longing 
gripped him to walk through the soft earth, his own land, 
with the handles in his hands. So he took the plow and 
started. It was a warm day, and as he reached the end of 
the furrow he began to feel tired; but when he looked over 
his shoulder at the fresh furrow his plow had cut, he felt 
strangely contented. His heart leaped forward with his task 
and he hardly knew when the end had been reached. Then 
a strange thing happened. For the lord heard a light little 
laugh, and looking down he saw Happiness perched on the 
handle of the plow, within reach of his hand. 

There is a fine little moral that sticks out at the end of 
this story. 

I know that some within our own little circle are discon- 
tented and unhappy, because, oh, so many have told me "all 
about it" in letters that were blue as indigo. And yet, 
perhaps, if you searched you would find happiness right at 



76 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

your own door in your own home. Maybe there is a burden 
that can be lightened by a cheerful smile or a bit of good 
advice, or a tiny little effort from a helping hand. And you 
will be surprised to find how much nearer Happiness will 
seem if you will only realize that it is not in the great world 
of glitter and bustle that the fairy sprite is found. 

You remember the old saying, "Money is the root of all 
evil." Let us keep always beside it this other sentence : ^TL/ove 
is the beginning of all happiness" 

Put a little love into your most homely tasks ; smile at the 
little cripple boy that you meet in the street car and bite 
your lips hard when you want to say an unkind word. 

Don't try to chase a happiness that glitters and shines like 
a bubble in the sunshine: do your best at helping and com- 
forting and loving, and then you will find Happiness at your 
finger tips and smiling. 

Don't cry for the wealth of Midas ; 

He suffered his share of pain ; 
Don't think that all joy is money, 

In a glittering, golden rain. 
For a thankful smile is a blessing 

More precious than gold can buy; 
And happiness goes to the one who knows 

That God is enthroned on high. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 77 



A BIT O' SHAJSIROCK 



SHURE, don't you know what it is?" asked the Little 
Old Lady. "It can't be that you don't know !" She 
lifted the sprig of greenness to her nose and sniffed it 
as if searching for a half-imaginary, wholly delightful frag- 
rance. "Why, it's a bit of shamrock — shamrock from the 
ould country." 

The Girl looked at the withered hand with its neat white 
cuff and slender, heavily blue-veined wrist. She saw the ring- 
finger with its dull, heavy band of gold, the spot of vivid 
color that outlined itself, clover-like, on the palm. 

"A bit of shamrock !" she mused. "A bit of shamrock !" 

" 'Tis on it the fairies are dancing this night," murmured 
the Little Old Lady, "and my heart is with them there." 

The Girl started. Some time ago there had been fairies, 
but they were make-believe fairies, carefully sandwiched be- 
tween the pages of her long-discarded story books. 

"The fairies?" she questioned. "Real fairies?" Her 
voice held a surprised wonder — a polite unbelief. "Surely 
you don't mean it?" she asked. 

"Shurely I do !" ejaculated the Little Old Lady. "Why, 
I've noticed them myself. It's often I've noticed them. They 
dance on the green, and it's the little shamrocks they love 
better than any flower — the little shamrocks that are as green 
as God's grass and trees, that are shaped like a kiss from the 
wind that blows over the heather. It's many times they've 
come to me !" 

The Girl looked across the dim twilight-filled room. Some- 
how, her eyes smiled softly into the shadows. 

"Just how have you happened to notice them — the 
fairies ?" she asked. 



■^8 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The Little Old Lady put a small finger to her lips in a 
meditative, strangely childlike way. 

"Why, it's not aisy to explain," she murmured. "Dear 
child! They come different ways, different ways altogether. 
Sometimes I thought it was a string o' sunbeams dancin' on 
the floor — sometimes I thought it was a light breeze playin' 
on the wee grasses. But I always, always knew soon that it 
was the fairies !" 

The Girl gasped wonderingly. "You always knew it was 
the fairies?" she questioned. "You always knew? Do you 
mean that you — saw them?" 

A slow deprecating smile spread itself, dreamlike, over the 
wrinkled face, as the Little Old Lady gazed a bit wistfully 
at the shamrock in her hand. 

"Well, it's never exactly that I've seen them," she said 
slowly, "but shure I've felt them !" her voice was triumphant. 

The Girl M^as plainly startled. How, she wondered, could 
one feel a fairy? Some way, in her most utterly believing 
child days, she had never felt one — actually felt one. 

"Did they — touch you?" she asked abruptly. 

The Little Old Lady laughed delightedly and beamed 
through her thick glasses at the Girl. 

"They never exactly touched me," she admitted; "but, 
darlin', my soul felt them. ... I knew they'd been in 
the room, the blessed little people, for some how I'd find my 
spirits up in the air, and my heart, that had, maybe, been 
heavy-like, a singin' hymns. I'd feel clear-headed, and 
healthier, and more sweet, so I'd know they'd touched me !" 

The Girl pouted. (She had a charming mouth that 
pouted kissingly.) Two big question marks glowed menac- 
ingly in her soft eyes. 

"But if," she ejaculated, "but if you have felt them, why 
haven't I? If they've come to you in sunbeams or summer 
winds, why haven't they come to me ? If they've kissed your 
soul, why haven't they helped me when I've been low-spirited 
and sad ? I've never seen one." Her voice was plaintive. 

The Little Old Lady reached out a small hand that was 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 79 

scarred with toil-marks, toil-marks that were veiled dimly by 
a host of years. She touched the Girl gently on the arm. 

"Shure, dear/' she murmured, "you can't expect to see 
them — it was in the ould country that they used to visit me. 
They kissed my tears away when Johnny died, and softened 
the hurt when my little girl sailed over the ocean. It was in 
the ould country ! Here . . . why, here you don't believe 
and hope — you haven't time ! A sunbeam's only a sunbeam, 
and a breeze is only a breeze. The shadow of their wings is only 
a bit o' dust, and the sound of their singin' is only a trouble- 
some noise in your brain. Why, child, here you haven't got a 
fairy ring that they could dance on ; you've put tall buildings 
and streets and cars over them, and built subways under them. 
You're too busy hurrying after work, and money, and fame, 
to stop for their whisper. And when perhaps you've earned 
the right to rest, your heart is too old and wrinkled to know 
the feel of their hands. Shure, dear, you haven't time for 
the little people." 

The purple shadows fell softly over the Girl's face as she 
sat with drooping eyes, and the Little Old Lady sighed as if 
the wind of her homeland was playing through her mind. 
The small room was strangely still — strangely filled with 
peace. 

Suddenly the Little Old Lady spoke, while her eyes looked 
tenderly at the bit of shamrock that drooped on the palm of 
her hand. "Green it is !" she murmured, "like all of God's 
growing things — " All at once she laughed gently at a pretty 
little thought. "Child," she half whispered, "do we ever, 
when we see the growing things, thank God enough? We 
should thank Him every day that he didn't make the trees 
or the grass red, or purple, or orange. Think of our eyes if 
we couldn't rest them like with the deepness, or the freshness, 
or the softness of the green ! Do we ever thank him enough ?" 

The Girl visualized a world tinted, like a cubist picture, 
in orange, or purple, or red. Suddenly a convulsive shudder 
swept across her shoulders and she eyed, very thankfully, the 



80 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

sprig of healthy, wholesome, romance-tinted greenness on the 
withered palm. 

"A bit of shamrock !" she mused, '^and in the old country 
the fairies are dancing on a ring of them — " 

The Little Old Lady, under cover of the shadows, raised 
the small leaf to her lips. "And me heart is dancin' with 
them," she sighed. Her voice was gentle — but a bit husky. 




II 



*J* 



j^Jhp HoostQr crows and ^oodnpcss knows, 

I'm sLoQpy as can bo ! 

I wondor why ho has to ccy 
Whon it's too dapk to sqq ? 
Jn fathprs tonos,"You Lazy boriQs!" 
ComQs shouting from t.ho lawn, 
I Pise and sigh and wondor why 
Tho R.oo6tGr crows at dawn ? 

ni toU _you true? what I will do, 

Whe-n I havQ ^^pown a man.. 

Ill stay in be^d a slippy hoad. 

As often as I ean__ 

And whon tho sun has just bogun 

To Gposs nry bodpoom doop; 

III hoar tho R.oostor cpow, and Oh! 

I'll lot him erow somo moro. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 81 



THE INDIAN CHIEF'S 
LOVE SONG 



Last night you came to me, dear, in my dreaming. 
Light was your step as the breeze of the morn ; 

Bright were your eyes as two vivid stars, beaming, 
Soft were your lips as a rose-bud new born. 

Ah ! how my arms, dear, were stretching to greet you. 
Hoarse was my voice as it whispered your name — 

Swift were my feet as they hurried to meet you; 
All of the darkness grew bright as you came ! 

Last night you came to me, dear, in my dreaming, 
Sweetly you spoke as your hand touched my hair; 

Then I awoke . . . And the night birds were screaming. 
All of the world, dear, was stricken and bare. 

Here in my lodge, dear, I sit and my singing 

Echoes the wail of the wind on the sea ; 
Here I will wait for your kisses, joy bringing, 

Till you have come in my waking to me. 



82 EBAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



LUCK 



When things come out most awful nice, 

Fer little Billie Green; 
He says : "My goodness, how I've worked, 

"Why, you ain't never seen, 
"A boy who works as hard as me — 

"I've earned just all I've got!" 
An' then he struts away, all proud — 

That's Billie to a dot ! 

When things come out most awful nice, 

And pleasant jest f er me ! 
Why, little Billy Green, he scowls 

As mean as he can be. 
An' though I've worked most awful hard. 

You'd never think I did — 
Fer Billy Green, he looks at me, 

An' says : "You're lucky, kid !" 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 83 



BUNDLE DAY 



(Bundle Day was first celebrated this winter.) 

Perchance, who knows, some Lincoln soul. 

May shiver in the winter blast ; 
Perhaps some Washington may freeze. 

Where snow and sleet sweep thick and fast. 
Perhaps for just a pair of shoes, 

A man might throw his life away ; 
And we could give them what they need ! 

So people say — on Bundle Day. 

From attic, closet, rusty chest. 

The folk should take the garments down 
That they have kept, perhaps to use. 

Should send them to the nearest town 
Where homeless, jobless people cry. 

With lips too stiff and cold to pray. 
Some one has need of every rag. 

So people say — on Bundle Day. 

No one can be too small to give. 

For babies tremble with the cold ; 
No gift can be too mean to bring, 

For very young or very old. 
Whole clothes may bring new self respect, 

To men who droop beside the way. 
To girls who walk in ragged shoes — 

So people say — on Bundle Day. 



84 BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



DOWN THE HUDSON IN 
A STORM 



The water swept behind us in a whirling sheet of white, 

That trembled on the billows of a river black as night; 

The storm clouds filled the heaven, and the dripping fevered 

sky- 
Shown bright with lightning flashes while the thunder 

rumbled high. 

We crouched against the guard rail — on the upper deck were 

we. 
The rain was in our faces, on our lashes — wild and free 
Were the winds that beat upon us, though their deep and 

sullen moan 
Was one half like fiendish laughter and was half way like a 

groan. 

Far below us stretched the water — and its arms were open 

wide 
To receive us should we falter in between the storm and tide ; 
And the shore (not very distant) seemed a thousand miles 

away, 
For the fog crept thick and gloomy, like a sullen sheet of 

spray. 

Far off against the skyline loomed the Catskills and the mist 
Hung on them like a bridle veil. The rain drops softly kissed 
The pine trees and the maples swiftly turning gold and 

brown, 
That crowned each mountain summit where the clouds swept 

grimly down. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 85 

Against the rail we lingered and our souls were filled with awe, 
As swift our boat whirled onward past a changing line of 

shore — 
And fright was in our heart throbs as the vivid lightning 

flashed 
And thankful words crept from us when the thunder far off 

crashed. 

We passed a castle standing on a hill above the shore, 
We wondered had it stood there for a hundred years or more; 
For the background hinted darkly of a haunted forest grey. 
And the tower breathed her secrets that were many years 
away. 

The wind blew harder, colder, but the rain became more fine, 
And the thunder died to whispers in among the mountain 

pine; 
And the lightning, vanquished grandly, cast one long and 

gleaming spear 
To the army of the forest that was spreading far and near. 

We pressed against the railing with our faces toward the sky — 
And with tender smile we watched them as the storm clouds 

scudded by; 
And our hearts leaped to the gleaming of the first celestial 

blue. 
As the blackness split asunder, and the sun came smiling 

through. 

All the shore was dripping greenly in a warm and fragrant 

light. 
And the mountains rose in triumph high above the water 

bright ; 
And the trees that had been blighted by the wind and frost 

and rain 
Smiled forgiveness to the heavens and took up their life again. 



86 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

We leaned against the guard rail, on the upper deck were we, 
And the world seemed friendly to us, we felt strong and fresh 

and free ; 
And the spray that dashed before us when our harbor had 

been won, 
Marked our triumph, for its gleaming made a rainbow in the 

sun! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 87 



THE RIGHT TO PLAY 



(A short time ago a little boy was arrested for 
carving his initials on a city tree. — News Item.) 

I wonder if God sees his kindly forest trees, [shade ; 

Walled in from little children who would revel in their 
I wonder if God knows the terror and the woes 

That haunt each little city waif who lives to be afraid? 

I used to carve initials in the trees, when I was small, 
And now that I have wiser grown, and tall, 
The trees still stand — they were not hurt at all ! 
I used to make a heart with blunted knife. 
An arrow running through it, and today 
The memory prints a joyous page of life. 

Of love and play. 
No one said : "Do not !" when I carved my trees, 
And so, alone in all the forest shade, 
I listened to the singing of the breeze, 
And childishly I talked with God — and prayed. 
And yet, when children who by instinct play. 
Take knife in hand and start to carve a name. 
The city puts the knife (and child) away. 
Some call it Justice. . . . Some folk call it shame ! 

Oh ! little children saddened young by woes, 
I wonder ... If God knows? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



LOVE— AT FIRST SIGHT 



I saw her first in a gown of grey, 
A quaint little gown of another day ; 
Her hands were folded, her eyes were low, 
Her feet were crossed on the floor — just so — 
And I thought of words that I might not say. 
When I saw her first in her gown of grey. 

She gave me tea in a cup of green, 

A china cup with a silky sheen; 

Her hands were gentle and very slim, 

And white they looked in the twilight dim . . 

And I tasted naught of the tea, I ween. 

That she gave to me in a cup of green. 

The firelight made a rosy glow 
In front of her, and the world, I know. 
Was tinted just like a budding flower, 
That blooms and dies in a perfect hour. 
My pulses leaped that had faltered slow, 
When I talked to her in that rosy glow. 

She raised her lashes and looked at me. 
Her eyes were brighter than jewels could be ; 
And warm with light from her very heart, 
A light that pierced like some perfumed dart, 
Deep through my soul — and I could not see 
When she raised her eyes — for she looked at me ! 

I saw her first in a gown of grey, 

A dear little gown of another day — 

And I wished that my arms might hold her fast. 

While all the world full of shams swept past ; 

And I thought of words I might sometime say, 

When I saw her first in her gown of grey. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 89 



AN EASTER FABLE 



SOME of us, here in the world, are destined to be flowers 
in the garden of life — tall lilies, or graceful roses, or 
modest violets. Some of us, perhaps not a few, may 
become weeds. No matter what we are, let us try, with God's 
gracious help, to grow beautifully, lovingly, helpfully ! 

Once upon a time, by some strange chance, a little seed 
blew into a large conservatory and settled down to sleep on 
the moist earth. Being tired from its long Journey it slept 
steadily until one day the sun poked a warm finger into the 
earth and whispered softly : 

"Wake up, tiny seed ; put your little green arms above the 
warm blanket and reach to me !" 

And the little seed, like a drowsy child on a cold winter 
morning, stretched its arms and smiled, as that same child 
would have stretched its arms and smiled to a loving mother. 
And there, above the brown blanket of earth, two small green 
shoots appeared and started to grow. 

The conservatory was very beautiful, and the little seed 
caught its breath with wonder and delight as it gazed around 
for the first time. Masses of glossy green foliage fell away 
from a small marble fountain and bits of statuary gleamed 
whitely from behind huge, graceful ferns. Great rose bushes 
filled the air with fragrance and tall lilies nodded lazily to 
each other. Bright-faced pansies giggled in a royal purple 
and yellow group, and clumps of mignonette blossomed shyly 
together. The little seed breathed a sigh of rapture as it 
looked, and wondered vaguely how it had ever happened to 
come to such a beautiful place. It remembered a time of 
tossing on the wind, a time being buffeted from one cold 
window ledge to another; finally a time of sleeping. But 



90 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

this — the little seed gave another deep sigh — this was like 
heaven ! 

"I wonder," it murmured, "I wonder what kind of a 
flower I shall be when I grow up? Perhaps I shall be white 
and gold like the lilies, or shell-pink like the roses !" It 
wiggled its little roots in the softness of the earth and 
stretched its arms higher toward the warm, smiling sun. 

The days crept on, a vague number of them (for little 
seeds cannot be expected to count). There were many visits 
from a harsh man, who opened windows, and snipped leaves 
with a wicked-looking pair of scissors, and sprinkled cool 
water over the earth. He was called "the gardener." There 
were children who sniffed at the flowers and dabbled their 
fingers in the clearness of the fountain ; and there were young 
lovers who slipped quietly down the tiny walks and murmured 
gentle words to the accompaniment of the soft music that 
filled the rest of the house. The little seed hardly slept for 
sheer interest. 

"I wonder," it questioned one day of a tall lily that 
towered high above it, "I wonder if I shall ever look like you ?" 

The lily bent its wonderful head graciously. 

"I don't think so !" it said sympathizingly. "You don't 
seem to grow tall." 

For the first time the little seed looked down at its leaves. 
True, it had not grown tall ! Why, it was even growing fat 
and scrubby. Suddenly, with a fear that gnawed at its heart, 
it turned to its near neighbor, a pansy. Pansies are not tall. 

"Do you think," it asked, with a note of desperation in its 
voice, "do you think that I shall grow to look like you ?" 

The pansy shook its head — shook it cheerfully. 

"Never!" it murmured — "why, our leaves are different." 
Suddenly it jumped. "Keep quiet," came a whisper; "the 
gardener!" (Flowers never talk when folk can hear.) 

The little seed always shivered instinctively when the 
gardener passed. It gasped, now, in abject terror, as the man 
paused in front of it. 

"A weed !" he was saying contemptuously ; "a weed ! How 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 91 

did it get into my garden?" All at once his rough fingers 
plucked the little seed from its warm bed and flung it, small 
roots quivering, on a wheelbarrow. "A weed!" muttered the 
gardener. He passed down the tiny walk. 

The little seed lay dazed, to all outward appearance, as it 
was being trundled from the conservatory. It felt as the 
captive emperors felt when they were being dragged through 
Rome at the chariot wheels. As it was thrown carelessly into 
a barrel on the gutter, its poor little heart seemed to snap. 
Quite suddenly it hated the other plants that were flowers, 
the gardener, the sun, even the warm brown earth. 

"I might have been a lily," it sobbed, "and I'm only a 
weed. I must die — I will die — the world is cold and I 
hate it!" 

Mary Ellen was coming home from the mission school. 
The kind Lady had been talking about flowers, and Mary 
Ellen's little heart was sad. She lived alone on the top floor of 
a tenement house with the Busy Mother, and she knew that 
there would never be time for a garden nor money for a 
plant. Still, the hope died hard, for Mary Ellen had faith 
in miracles, and she prayed as she walked home from the 
mission school. 

"0 God, send me a garden !" prayed Mary Ellen. 

She was passing a barrel at the time. Her keen eyes 
caught a shimmer of green in the depths of it — drooping, 
fading green. It was the little seed, and the little seed was 
praying, too. 

"Oh, let me die !" the little seed was saying. 

Mary Ellen poked experimental fingers into the barrel. 
Tenderly her small hand brought the bit of greenness to 
light. She surveyed it happily — its healthy roots, its drooping 
little leaves that were trying to die. Mary Ellen was a polite 
child — they teach one to be polite at the mission school. 

"Thank you, God !" said Mary Ellen. 

It was a triumphant entry that the little seed made into 
the small tenement room. The Busy Mother laid down her 
sewing and found a saucer to hold the visitor, and Mary Ellen 



92 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

searched the whole place for a bit of sunlight to stand it in. 
"My garden !" she cooed. 

The little seed drooped in its saucer. It remembered the 
fountain, the sunlight, the rich, brown soil of the conservatory. 

"I cannot live here !" it cried. 

If the little seed had been a flower it probably would have 
died. But it was a weed, and though it moped and tried to 
smother its tiny soul, it continued to grow greener, and 
stronger, and more scrubby. The Busy Mother paused often 
in her work to look at the bravery of it; little Mary Ellen 
took sparkling stories of "my garden" to the mission school, 
and then one gala day when she came home at night she 
screamed with delight to see a tight green bud on the plant. 

"Mother ! mother !" she cried, "see — a flower." 

For the first time since it had left the conservatory the 
little seed felt proud. After all, it was something to be 
loved — after all it was something to bear flowers for a Mary 
Ellen. 

"I wonder what I am?" murmured the little seed. 

The next day at mission school the kind Lady told about 
Easter Sunday. She gathered the children, mostly little 
aliens, about her and told them the story of a wonderful Life 
that began in a stable and ended on a cross. She told them the 
way her church uptown celebrated the day with anthems and 
white-robed choir boys and lilies. She told how, afterwards, 
the flowers were sent to sick children. 

"We give them in His name," she finished ; "in His name ! 
Because," her eyes glanced far away, "because he gave his life 
for us !" 

Mary Ellen was listening. "We give because" — she asked 
breathlessly. "Lady, did he give his life — for me ?" 

"For you, Mary Ellen !" 

Mary Ellen walked home slowly. The Busy Mother 
greeted her with a smile that was less tired than usual. 

"See, dear," said the Busy Mother, "your flower has 
bloomed. I used to pick them when I was a tiny girl. We 
called them dandelions !" 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 93 

Mary Ellen walked softly over to the flower. One small 
finger caressed the golden yellow blossom, 

"It's my dearest thing — next to you !" she said softly — 
"should I give it, mother ?" 

The Busy Mother Laid down her work. There in the dim 
little room the blossom made a splash of sunlight color amid 
the dullness. 

"Give it ?" she questioned — "give it — where ?" 

Mary Ellen looked at her garden. Then she looked at the 
Busy Mother who had again bent over her sewing. 

"It's going to be Easter Sunday," she said, "and Jesus 
gave his life for me. I want to give something to him !" 
Suddenly she sobbed. "It's my garden," she choked, "but I 
want to give it. It's — " she buried her head on the Busy 
Mother's shoulder and told about the church and the flowers. 

The Busy Mother patted Mary Ellen's small, tired head, 
and winked back her own tears, but over in the corner the 
little plant drooped its blossoms with shame. Why, lilies 
went to church on Easter — not iveeds! 

The next morning when Mary Ellen arrived at the mission 
she handed a newspaper-wrapped, queerly-shaped bundle to 
the Kind Lady. 

"It's for Him"— said Mary Ellen. 

"Him?" The Kind Lady was not thinking of the Easter 
story — "him ? What is it, dear ?" 

Mary Ellen choked back a sob. "He died — for me — " she 
told the Kind Lady, "and I want to give Him my dearest 
thing. Will you take it to your church ?" 

The Kind Lady's brow cleared. Softly, with tender fin- 
gers, she undid the clumsy wrappings, the bulky newspaper. 
In all its brightness the little seed glowed at her — 

"My garden!" breathed Mary Ellen. 

The Kind Lady's eyes were moist as she looked at the 
child's gift. She thought of the flower committee's astonish- 
ment when they saw the dandelion, and she made up her mind 
that it should have a place of honor. Suddenly she drew 
the little girl into her arms. 



94 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

*'Your garden shall go to church, dear," she said, "and He, 
Himself, will watch it as it grows !" 

The church was wonderful — just as the conservatory had 
been wonderful. Masses of white lilies and green ferns 
breathed of love, and springtime, and resurrection. At first 
the little dandelion, in the shadow of a tall plant, was rather 
frightened and ashamed. It shivered with nervousness, and 
then — 

All at once a breath of something stole through the huge 
room — something sweeter than the perfume of the lilies, 
sweeter and infinitely thrilling — it was music. 

Unexplainably, with the music, a light of understanding 
crept over the little seed. It began to realize something about 
life and the meaning of life. It began to realize that, even 
though it was only a weed, there was a place for it in the 
world. It began to realize that a weed may be useful — even 
beautiful. 

The music swelled into a tone that held the mystery of 
springtime after the cold of winter, of life eternal after death; 
and the little seed sank back restfully until its small golden 
face made a spot of color against the green — color that looked 
like the sun. And still the music sounded — music that as- 
cended grandly to a wonderful chord before it melted away 
into silence. 

And when the music stopped the little seed breathed a 
prayer — a prayer to live. It had found itself. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 95 



THE JOY OF EASTER 



The Boy Soprano fixed his deep blue eyes on the little 
window high up in the ceiling, and smiled with radiant ex- 
pression of a cherub. Then he opened his mouth and sang, 
while the huge congregation stiffened in their seats and 
clasped their hands. 

"Christ the Lord is risen today !" told the Boy Soprano, 
happily, "Alleluia, Alleluia." 

The lilies nodded fragrantly and the organ music swelled 
softly through the church. 

"Sons of men, and angels say," the second line rang out 
clearly above the sound of the organ, and the Stout Man with 
the Diamond Stick Pin drew his hand over his eyes. 

"Eaise your joys and triumphs high ! Alleluia, Alleluia," 
sang the wonderful voice tenderly, and then triumphantly: 

"Sing ye heavens ! and earth reply ! Alleluia, Alleluia." 

The sexton coughed softly and the Little Lady in Fluffy 
Black rested her head on the seat in front of her, while the 
golden voice fluttered on above the golden lily hearts. 

And then the benediction was pronounced and the people 
drifted homeward. 

It was a rich congregation, and the men and women were 
gorgeously dressed. They had listened to a good sermon, and 
they had complacently put a large offering into the silver 
plates. But the Boy Soprano had sung the hearts out of 
them and they were leaving with a certain feeling of joy. 

So for the day the Fat Man with the Diamond Stick Pin 
did not talk shop, the sexton did not grumble as he cleaned 
up the church, and the little lady in black did not cry as she 
placed flowers under the picture of a certain chubby little girl. 

It was Easter and the sun lay over the world, a great world 



96 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

of flowers, and prayers, and kind deeds, and new hats. Men 
who had not been to church for a year read the Bible to their 
wives and thought of a Cross and a Eedeemer. Spring entered 
souls and hearts sang. It was Easter Sunday. 

But on the day after ; when a fine rain fell on the awaken- 
ing earth and the streets grew sloppy and gray; the Boy 
Soprano tracked mud into his mother's clean parlor, and the 
Man with the Diamond Stick Pin went back to business and 
swore at his clerks, and the Little Lady in Black shut herself 
into a room and sobbed questions to God, while the little 
picture girl smiled, and a thousand children with the Picture 
Girl's great wistful eyes sat in the rainy streets — Homeless. 

It was the day after Easter. 

I once knew a girl who was not strikingly religious. She 
admitted frankly that she did not think that she appreciated 
church, or the Bible, or Heaven. 

"The world all seems to be present to me," she said once, 
"and past. I can't quite guess about the future. I can't quite 
believe the things they tell me !" 

It was early spring time and I was calling on her. Some- 
how, though, I didn't understand her, she wakened my interest 
and curiosity. 

"Are you going to Church on Easter ?" I asked — this same 
curiosity having been aroused. 

"Oh, yes," said the girl gayly. "I always go on Easter 
because I will have a new suit and gloves and hat. I wouldn't 
miss it for anything. If you want me, I'll go to church with 
you." 

So on Easter I stopped for the girl, and, a vision in blue, 
she came out to meet me, the sun caught in her hair, the sky 
prisoned her eyes. Together we went to church. 

There was, for some reason, a visiting minister that day. 
He was tall and thin and unimpressive looking and we were 
rather disappointed. But when he opened his lips and began 
to talk to us we forgot about his looks. . . . 

Slowly the stained glass windows, and the heavy pews, 
and the choir loft seemed to melt away, and we saw a hillside 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 97 

covered with armed men, and crying women and cursing 
thieves. And there on a cross was a form, blood-stained and 
weary. . . . The hillside faded away and again I looked 
at the tall figure in the pulpit who was telling, Oh, so simply, 
a beautiful story. Then I looked at the girl beside me. Head 
bent forward, lips parted, she was drinking in every word. 
Her dress was crumpled just a bit and her hat had slipped 
back a little, but she was absolutely unconscious of them. 
And as I looked at her I saw that her cheeks were flushed and 
that a beautiful light shone in her eyes. 

After the service we went home together. She didn't say 
a word, and I was silent too. Words somehow were unneces- 
sary, for she was seeing a cross; I was thinking of a pair of 
radiant eyes with a soul lying back of them. It was only 
when we parted at her door that she seemed to remember me. 

"I'm glad that I went this morning," she said softly and 
I knew what she meant. For her, that Easter would last 
through life. 

Spring time is of all the happiest time in the year. People 
ought to be glad in the spring time, they should want to sing 
and praise God, and do good when the world is awakening 
and the trees are beginning to have tiny buds, and the grass is 
springing up through the dirt and dust of the ground. And 
when Easter comes — Easter, with its carols and rejoicing, its 
lilies and song-birds, its sermons and its resurrection — the 
joy of spring time is at its height. 

Oh, people, there are three hundred and sixty-five days in 
the year. Every four years there are three hundred and sixty- 
six. And Easter Sunday comes only once a year ! It seems 
as if we could carry the happiness, and the rejoicing, and the 
goodness away with us for longer than a day, a week, doesn't 
it?" 

So when the sun streams down, and the lilies lift their 
golden hearts and the Boy Soprano tells us that "Christ the 
Lord is risen today" let us try to promise ourselves that we 
shall help and pray. And when a shadow comes between us 

7 



98 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

and the sun let us think of a shadow that lay on a hillside 
long ago — the shadow of a cross ! And when the sunset glows 
over the world at evening, and we fold our hands with the 
feeling of a task well done, remember that it is Easter time 
(whether it be spring or winter, summer or autumn). For 
long ago a Man died, suffering, for us and He is risen. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



99 



MOONLIGHT 



When moonlight breathes a throbbing hymn, 

Across a sea of dreams ; 
Then troubled day lies far away, 

And every shadow seems 
To hold a promise, sweet, of peace. 

Of God's own country bright ; 
And no one fears as midnight nears. 

For heavy hearts grow light. 

Ah ! Wars may rage and folk may die, 

And nations sad may be; 
But God is gracious when He sends. 

The moonlight to the sea. 

When moonlight breathes a silver prayer, 

Across the sea of life ; 
Then saddened hearts forget their smarts, 

And all the din of strife 
Fades from the mind, and troubled souls 

Are lifted up on high ; 
And angels bright with holy light. 

Sing softly from the sky. 

What though the voyage be all too short? 

God's hand is strong to save; 
And through the clouds our eyes may see. 

The moonlight on the wave ! 



100 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



WHY, YOU KNOW! 



Do I love you ? Can you ask me such a thing ? 
See that bird way up above us, see his wing, 
How it seems to touch the blueness of the sky? 
Dear, my love for you is reaching just as high ! 

Do I love you ? Watch the sunlight on the sea. 

See the lights and shadows dancing far and free ? 

Makes the water all a-glisten, gold for miles. 

That's the way my love is gleaming 'neath your smiles ! 

Do I love you? See the meadows stretching far. 
And the grass — just think of all the blades there are ! 
My, you couldn't count them, could you, in a year. 
But my love is twice their number, for you, dear ! 

Do I love you? Ah, my darling, if this land, 
Were my own I'd put it gladly in your hand. 
How is one poor tongue to tell — I love you so, 
Dearest, are you laughing at me ? Why, you know ! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 101 



BLACK 



Don' yer cry, m' baby. 

Did they tease yer hard ? 
Chased yer from th' schoolhouse, 

Ter yer own back yard ? 
Whut were it they called yer ? 

Hush — they won't come back, 
Called yer Nigger baby. 

Called 

yer 

black? 

Don' yer cry, m' honey, 

They don' mean no hurt ; 
They cayn't see th' diff'rence 

'Tween yer skin — an' dirt. 
They cayn't guess, pore chillen. 

Ain't a one 'at knows. 
That yer mammy calls yer. 

Little 

yellar 

rose. 

Don' yer cry, m' darlin'. 

Wipe yer shiny eyes ; 
Smile at 'em right lovin'. 

Take 'em by surprise. 
Tell 'em that th' Father, 

Made yer heart as white. 
As th' little snowflakes 

Dancin' by 

so 

light. 



102 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Don' yer cry, m' baby, 

Did they tease yer hard ; 
Chased yer from the schoolhouse, 

Ter yer own back yard ? 
Made yer tears flow over. 

Honey, smile 'em back ! 
Mammy loves her baby, 

Though 

he's 

black ! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 103 



XO, I AM WITH YOU ALWAY" 



Beside the plow He walks with me, 

And if my step he slow, 

He pauses, waiting so that He 

May lead me where I go. 

I feel His presence at my side. 

His hand upon my hair ; 

His love sweeps boundless, like the tide, 

About me everywhere. 

Beside the plow He walks with me ; 

I cut the furrows deep, 

I know His gentle eyes will see 

The harvest that I reap. 

His guiding touch is on my arm, 

And well I know the care 

That keeps me safe from sin and harm 

Is with me everywhere. 

Beside the plow He walks with me. 
And all my troubles sweep 
Away, I know that there will be 
No time to pine or weep : 
My very oxen seem to feel 
The rapture in the air ; 
The love that lives to bless and heal 
Surrounds us everywhere. 

Beside the plow He walks with me. 

And lo, the sun shines down : 

The same that smiled on Galilee, 

And on a thorny crown. 

God grant that when the shadows creep 

Across the mountain fair 

His love may still be wide and deep 

About me everywhere. 



104 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



VACATION DAYS 



Vacation days of gold and blue, 
When fairy tales seem almost true ; 
When eyes are bright and glad hearts sing, 
When I am queen and you are king ! 

When boats are swift with sails of pearl. 
And I — in heart a tiny girl — 
Laugh light with all the joy of life, 
Without a fear, pain or strife. 

Vacation Days ! When all the earth, 
Is just a vale of sun and mirth ; 
When laughter ripples on the breeze, 
And song birds flutter in the trees. 

When every mountain top so high. 
Steals sunlight from the glowing sky ; 
When every river seems to sing — 
Of youth and an eternal spring. 

Vacation Days ! Along the sands, 
The waves stretch out entreating hands ; 
And every gleam that tints the sea. 
Spells happiness to you — and me. 

Of all the world you love me best. 
And I — but oh ! you know the rest, 
For every breeze sings sweet and low — 
A song that says "I love you so !" 

Vacation days of gold and blue. 
When all the world is good and true — 
When I am queen and you are king. 
When eyes are bright and glad hearts sing. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 105 



THE KIND CONDUCTOR 



I STEPPED gratefully on to the trolley car and sub- 
sided, near the door, into the only vacant seat. It was a 

very crowded trolley car; crowded with men and women, 
half-grown children and little crying babies, and as I looked 
interestedly down the aisle I saw workingmen in dirt-stained 
overalls next to women in broadcloth suits, prosperous people 
in fur-lined overcoats sharing their seats, unwillingly perhaps, 
with ragged immigrants. 

It must have been extremely cold out on that back plat- 
form, for the conductor was holding his fingers before his face 
blowing on them. He had a blue, pinched look about the 
mouth. As I smiled quite unconsciously out of the door, he 
pulled his lips frozenly together and smiled back at me 
cheerily. 

The conductor had a pleasant though rather commonplace 
face. He had tiny laughter lines around his eyes, deep smile 
wrinkles at both sides of the mouth. His sandy hair was 
brushed back from a high forehead, and his eyes, deep-set 
blue eyes, twinkled at some small joke even as he tried vainly 
to blow the numbness from his finger tips. I found myself 
imagining him with a beard and long white hair, and I almost 
laughed as I realized how much he would look like Santa 
Claus, or Saint Valentine, or any of the other merry-men of 
childhood, if he could suddenly become old. 

A fat woman with a thin, just-beginning-to-walk baby 
started to lurch toward the door. The car was going very 
fast, so fast that she stumbled from side to side, while the 
frightened child, with a look of vague despair on its poor little 
face, reached groping hands toward the firmness of the 
seats. Involuntarily I stretched out an arm to steady the little 



106 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

thing, but as I touched its small coat sleeve the conductor 
pushed open the door, lifted the child and steadied it until 
the car stopped. His eyes smiled as he handed it to the fat 
woman and watched her hurry off down some side street. 

A little girl, a rather fluttery, nervous little girl with an 
old-looking face, stepped on at the next corner. She gazed 
hopelessly, helplessly at the conductor as she handed him her 
fare. 

"I've got to go to normal school," she told him worriedly, 
"but I don't know how t' get there ! The car doesn't go right 
past, does it?" 

The conductor put the coin into his fares pocket and beat 
his cold hands against each other. 

"I'll let you out, Miss," he told her kindly, "at a corner 
just two blocks from the school. Walk straight away from the 
car tracks and the first big building you see will be the one 
you are looking for. I'll call out when we get to the street." 
And with the nervousness fading from her face the little girl 
passed inside. 

A faded old woman and a pretty young one were sitting 
far to the front of the car. They had attracted my attention 
several times, for the young one had her arm protectingly 
around the shoulders of the old one, who sat leaning heavily 
back with closed eyes and pale, nearly grey face. They were 
both dressed shabbily in very neat clothes, and as I was 
wondering what their story might be I saw the girl get up and 
help the old woman to her feet. When I saw them pressing 
do'wn toward the door, the one tenderly solicitous, the other 
with tight-drawn lips and halting step, I realized that the 
older woman was desperately sick. When they reached the 
platform the chilly-looking conductor smiled reassuringly at 
the girl as he stopped the car. While they stood hesitating in 
the doorway at the top of the cruelly long steps, he jumped to 
the ground and held up his arms. The old woman was a very 
little old woman and he was a very big conductor. Gently, 
tenderly, as a trained nurse might have done, he lifted her 
from the high place and set her on the ground. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 107 

"You're good," the girl murmured; "she's very sick, my 
mother is, just out of the hospital — an' she can hardly walk." 

The conductor didn't answer. He only grinned — a cheer- 
ful, radiant, combination Santa Claus and Saint Valentine 
grin. Then he climbed back on the platform again and pulled 
the bell rope. 

The car was beginning to thin out, and as I gathered my 
things together I thought of conductors in general. I thought 
of the cross ones, who wouldn't wait, and the snappy ones, who 
wouldn't help, and the occasional surly ones who growled. I 
compared them with this conductor. 

While I was doing it the car stopped at the corner and a 
man got on, a man who looked almost objectionably prosperous 
from the soles of his patent leather, cloth-top shoes to the tip 
of his shiny imported hat. He held a bill out and waited im- 
portantly for change, while his small eyes looked curiously at 
the face in front of him. 

"I'm glad I haven't your job," he volunteered, not un- 
pleasantly; "it must be pretty bad in winter out on the back 
platform in the cold !" Comfortably he snuggled down into 
the depths of his fur-collared overcoat. 

The conductor switched open the door and held an Italian 
woman's heavy market basket for her as she clambered stiffly 
down. He pulled the bell rope before he answered. 

"Oh, I don't mind it," he answered cheerfully as he handed 
out the change— "y' know I like it — rather." It was then that 
I decided to write this article. 

I had arrived at my destination, for the car was slowing 
down to the right street. I got off slowly, and the conductor 
smiled at me with his happy smile while I stepped to the 
ground. 

The car swung heavily, clumsily around the corner and I 
saw him plainly on the back platform — for the last time. He 
was blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. 



108 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



IN THE APPLE TREE 



*'TT THAT," asked a small, girl-voice from the branches of 
W the apple tree, "what are you doing in my garden. 
Ogre man?" 

The man who sat under the apple tree jumped and looked 
up. His frown faded away as he gazed blankly into the 
screen of nodding green leaves. "Who," he stammered, 
"what—" 

The leaves parted rather marvellously and a face peered 
down at him, dryad-like, from between the branches. It was 
a deeply tanned little face with dancing blue-grey eyes, and 
a wistful mouth, and soft elf-locks of brown hair. The man 
scrambled to his feet as he looked. He scrambled a bit awk- 
wardly for one leg dragged in a limp rag-dollish way. 

"Pardon me," he said rather shortly, "I didn't know it was 
your garden — anybody's garden." 

"Oh," answered the voice from above, "oh, it isn't my truly 
garden — it's just my pretend garden. I'm the princess of this 
country, you know." 

The man gazed out over the rolling hills, the orchard, the 
green meadows. The sunlight danced goldenly between the 
trees, the white road stretched far off into the distance — 
perhaps to fairyland. "It's a beautiful country, your high- 
ness," he murmured, falling in with her mood. "May I stay 
in the garden — this once ?" 

There was a rustle in the soft foliage of the tree, and a 
hand — rather dirty from climbing — waved graciously over his 
head. 

"Of course you may stay," answered the voice, "that is, if 
you'll stop looking like an Ogre, and smile !" 

The Man settled back luxuriously on the grass with an 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 109 

exclamation that was half a groan, and half — almost — a sigh. 
"You wouldn't smile," he scowled up at her, "if your foot were 
permanently out of business. You'd look like an Ogre if you 
had to — limp." He snarled the last word. 

"But," said the voice from above, consolingly, "you have 
lovely brown eyes, and the longest lashes !" 

In sheer amazement the Ogre man stopped frowning. In 
grim surprise he stared blankly up at the wall of leaves. "But 
I can't walk on my eyes," he snapped. 

"But," answered the voice just as consolingly, "you can 
make 'em dance. Please do !" 

The Ogre man laughed half-heartedly. "You're just a 
kiddie," he told her — "little princess. You don't under- 
stand . . . what's your name?" 

The voice, a bit hurt, came down to him after the space 
of two golden minutes. "You must be all of twenty-five 
yourself," it said, "kiddie !" The tone was scornful. "And 
as you're curious, and I'm in an apple tree, we'll say my 
name is Eve. The name doesn't matter — ." 

The Ogre man was twenty-eight and flattered himself 
that he was blase enough to pass for thirty. He started to 
frown, but as he looked up he saw the face again peeping 
through the leaves. The face was smiling and a dimple 
dented one softly tanned cheek. It was a bewildering dimple. 
He forgot to frown. 

"It's a nice day, isn't it?" he asked foolishly. 

The leaves snapped together, and the face was submerged 
in the tumbled green wave of them. The voice, slightly cold, 
floated down after a moment. 

"Very," said the voice, "very nice, indeed !" 

There was a deep interval of silence; all around the 
shadows played hide and seek with the sunbeams. All the 
country was brilliantly colored in emerald and gold. The 
man breathed a deep sigh and moved his lame foot cautiously 
in the grass. Above his head in the tree a calm silence 
brooded. He coughed nervously and raised an anxious pair 
of eyes to the leafy screen. The silence held. He raised his 



110 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

arms above his head and yawned loudly — rudely. It had 
the desired effect. 

"Shall I sing you — a lullaby?" asked a small sarcastic 
voice. 

"You can shout war-whoops," said he contentedly — "if 
you'll only say something. It's lonely being an Ogre man 
in a far country." 

"It isn't a far country — " corrected the voice — "you know 
it isn't. But I'll talk just the same. A princess must be 
gracious. . . ." 

"Oh, yes indeed!" agreed the man. He would have 
agreed to anything. "A princess must be nice — even to an 
Ogre. How did this country happen to belong to you ?" 

"Well," there was a laugh running through the voice, 
"well — it was this way. I was walking past the orchard — 
and I thought 'it's a nice orchard even if the blossoms are 
dead — and the apples haven't begun !' And then I thought 
'poor orchard, it must be lonely — with no one to love it.' 
And then I came to a tree. And it had low branches, and 
my skirt was short, and I said, 'Eve, you're a little girl in 
rompers.' So I climbed up. And then you came. And I 
was just planning a prince." 

The voice stopped. 

"And I came — " said the man harshly — "with my limp. 
An Ogre man instead of a prince." He relapsed into a cloud 
of gloom. 

The branches rustled faintly and the face looked out — a 
face with a smiling mouth but tender eyes. "You've got a 
sweet disposition!" said the voice. "Poor Ogre man," said 
the tone. 

The man heard the tone, he ignored the words. "I won't 
be pitied," he said shortly. "Hang things, anyway !" 

Overhead a leaf, torn into shreads, fluttered to the ground. 
"You think I'm a — rather mean girl, don't you?" inquired 
the voice from above. "Perhaps, if you tell about it. . . . 
How did it all happen? When?" 

"It doesn't matter much, does it?" answered the man 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 111 

wearily. "I'm Hamilton Dean, you know — " he paused 
expectantly. 

Nothing happened. The branches of the tree rustled, 
but no breathless voice made a startled exclamation, and 
the man went on. 

"I was an actor — movies," he said bravely after a moment, 
"I did Wild West stuff — starred. Maybe you've seen my 
pictures. They used to have them all over. I did a lot of 
riding stuff, and . . . there was a girl. She worked in 
the same company. I thought that I loved her ... I 
thought that — she loved me." 

High in the tree the voice breathed something sym- 
pathetic. The man twitched on the grass, as if he was in 
sudden pain, and pulled his limp foot gingerly along the 
ground. 

"I did a lot of riding stuff," he repeated. "I was proud 
of it — so was she. It's a queer world. I was an Indian 
sometimes, and she played opposite me. Sometimes I was 
a cowboy, and sometimes I was a Mexican. I made up pretty 
dark. . . . She always played opposite me." 

The small face tipped perilously out of the tree — "I un- 
derstand," said the voice — "was she pretty?" 

The Orge man drew a deep breath. 

"I thought so — then," he growled — "I thought that her 
eyes were turquoise and her hair gold and her voice music. 
I know now; that I was only young — very young, indeed. 
Her eyes were hard ice and her hair was yellow, and her 
voice was rag-time. But I thought I loved her." 

The leaves rustled vaguely overhead, and the man heard 
a twig snap nervously. He laughed. 

"I had a stunt to do one day," he went on. "It was 
an Indian riding away from a crowd of whites. I had to 
climb down around the horse's side and hang there — to get 
away from their fire, you know. The horse's leg caught in 
a hole. He landed on my foot and smashed it. The doctor 
wanted to amputate, but I wouldn't let him, so he put it 
together a bit. I didn't want a wooden foot. When I got 



112 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

out of the hospital they didn't have to say a thing. I knew 
that my riding days were over. I knew I'd finished with 
the movies. I went to the girl and told her so — she gave 
me back my ring and I didn't blame her much. I noticed 
first that day that her eyes were blue — ice-hard! I came 
away. ... I heard later that she had said she wasn't 
going to have a crippled husband on her hands to support. 
I haven't seen a film since. I don't want to see one." 

The Girl in the Tree sighed. "Poor boy," she murmured, 
"poor boy." 

The Ogre man stirred uneasily. 

"I had some money saved," he went on — "we were going 
to buy a house. I bought a farm in the country. It wasn't 
near the beaten track. I limped away from the world, and 
lived through the dreariest winter of my life. When the 
spring came the pain left my foot — some — and I began to 
remember. The picture folk were very, very near to me, and 
before I knew it I began to make situations for them to act. 
I began to write plays. It was easy. I knew the business. 
They fix 'em up in the city and send me a check every month. 
It's a pretty big check — I never come in contact with them, 
I never see the reels. I know a few names — Weldon Hobart, 
he's my star. Evelyn Martindale plays leads — Harry Fishley 
is my comedy man. I wonder about them — but I never want 
to see them. I don't care about that end of the game. But 
it's lonely work." 

The girl up in the tree laughed chokingly. "You're not 
an Ogre man. You're not," she told him. "You're brave. 
And the girl was a cat." 

The man shook his head. 

"Brave nothing," he snorted — "and the girl was only 
natural. Who wants to be tied up to a cripple ?" He looked 
gloomily at his limp foot. "What are you doing here?" he 
asked suddenly. 

"Why," said the small girl voice in the tree. It was a 
startled voice. "Why, I'm here for two reasons — business 
and a vacation." 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 113 

"Business," the man laughed, "you're too young to know 
anything about business. What's the line — dolls?" 

"Why," answered the voice in the tree softly — "I'm a 
movie actress. And I'm up here to see a man." 

"What sort of a man?" asked the Ogre suspiciously. 
"What sort of a man?" he frowned. 

The girl in the tree laughed. "A man who writes my 
plays — " she said.. "I wanted him to see me. Some of the 
parts are wonders, you know, but some of them don't fit." 
Her voice was plaintive. 

The man dragged himself slowly, painfully, to his feet. 
He leaned against the tree trunk. 

"Then," he questioned slowly, "you're Evelyn Martin- 
dale — the leading lady. That's why you were in my 
orchard." 

"I thought it was," said the voice, "but you never can 
tell who orchards belong to. You don't mind seeing me, do 
you?" The face, a trifle flushed, peeped out of the tree. 

The man studied the face. The flickering dimples, the 
tanned cheeks, the deep eyes. Suddenly he smiled boyishly. 

"Fairy princess," he begged, "won't you come down? I 
can't come up, you know ?" 

The girl in the tree dropped lashes, deeply black, over the 
tenderness in her eyes. "If you help me," she murmured 
faintly, hands extended. 

The man took the hands in his own. They were rather 
dirty from tree climbing. 

"You were watching for a prince — " he said softly — "and 
an Ogre man came, with a lame foot." 

"I was waiting for a prince," said the girl, "and you came." 

A golden minute crept breathlessly away, and then sud- 
denly the man reached longing arms toward the face that 
smiled down at him. 

"Oh! fairy Princess," he murmured, "may I reign with 
you in your country?" 

The girl in the apple tree laughed gently and the dimple 
played in her cheek as she leaned toward him. 



114 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE NIGHT RIDE 



Swift through the night, dear, 
The road is dark behind us, 

And vagrant breezes sing to us as fast the moments fly; 
The city streets lie far away, 
And not a light to blind us, 

Shines nearer than the silver moon that trembles in the sky. 

Swift through the dark, dear, 
A thousand voices call us, 

They lure us down the road that stretches ribbon-like afar ; 
Our searchlight cuts a path of gold, 
Ah, how could harm befall us, 

When all the world is throbbing like the heart of some 
great star? 

Swift through the dark, dear. 
The night is all before us; 

Your face is looking forward, but I feel your eyes aglow — 
And silence trembles all around. 
It droops its mantle o'er us; 

And not a sound is spoken of the wonders that we know. 

Swift through the night, dear, 
The world is all behind us; 

I touch your sleeve with outstretched hand, and in my 
heart I hear 
Your voice, and it is calling me — 
God grant no sorrows find us ! 

For all the world seems kind and good, because I love 
you, dear ! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 115 



THE SHAME OF IT! 



War! 

The ages trembled at the word before; 

And battle cries have torn the years apart; 
And fires shooting upward to the sky 

Have burned themselves into a nation's heart. 

The cave men fought with hammers made of stone ; 

They knew no god, they knew no guiding hand; 
They battled for their rights, and quite alone 

They fought to keep their homes, their fertile land. 
And they were brave as blood-red men could be; 

They did not shrink at torture, or at pain; 
They died upon their feet, and, grasping, wished 

That they could fight once more — could die again. 

Yes, they were brutal. But the world was young; 

They knew no better than the beasts they killed; 
And we have heard their stories, bravely sung, 

The tales of men with strength and courage filled. 
We cannot blame theyn — but in war today 

The people know that God is judge on high ; 
They know the words of men, whose visions say, 

"Thou shalt not kill — thou shalt not cause to die 1" 

It is not only soldiers, strong of arms. 

And generals, toughened to the sight of shrouds. 
And sailors, who are used to war's alarms. 

And men who wait their death among the clouds ; 
If they alone could face the death they seek — 

Could do their wholesale murder by the score. 
It would be fair; but why should women weak 

Be made the victims of a mighty war? 



116 HEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

If all the ravage that they do could be 

The buildings tall that grace the countryside, 
The battleships that rule the mighty sea, 

The harvests rich that flourish far and wide, 
We could forget in time the waste they did — 

But how can we forgive the hand that stayed 
The maiden Progress? And the hand that bid 

A welcome red to Famine's awful raid? 

God, we pray to ask that we may see 

The nations bright once more with glowing grain; 
We pray that some time soon a light may be 

Upon the gentle faces drawn with pain. 
We pray to thank thee for thy loving care, 

To ask that peace from our fair land may spread 
To other countries — glowing everywhere, 

A benediction on the needless dead. 

Peace ! 

The years have smiled upon its bright release, 

And prayers have soothed the hearts with sorrow torn, 
And songs of praise have fluttered to the sky 

To tell that Love of all mankind is born. 



BEAL PEOPLE — AND BREAMS 117 



TO A SILENT MAN 



You look at me with eyelids lowered slightly, 

As if to hold a latent gleam of mirth; 
And (though of course I may not guess it rightly), 

You wonder how I stay upon the earth. 
I laugh and talk, but even in my jesting, 

I feel the hidden glances of your eyes; 
As if I were a — worm — and you were testing, 

My mind beneath a glass, with faint surprise. 
And though I try to wake the interest in you. 

With funny tales and clever bits of verse; 
I see a yawn, and when I but begin, you 

Will murmer, "That was bad — don't make it worse!" 
Oh ! if a fairy with a wand and septre would come and give 

me wishes one, two, three, 
I'd ask that you might talk, and if you didn't, that I might 
know the things you think and see ! 



118 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



IDYL 



The north wind cries outside, dear, 
And down upon the strand, 

The angry, foaming tide, dear. 
Is beating on the land. 

And in the forests dark, dear. 
The wolves are howling low; 

And every bit of park, dear. 
Is drifting white with snow. 

Oh! many folk there are, dear, 
Who wander cold and numb. 

They watch some distant star, dear. 
And pray for dawn to come. 



The firelight is gold, dear, 

What though the night be chill? 

What though the ice be cold, dear, 
Upon the rugged hill? 

The stormy winds may cry, dear. 
Far out upon the sea. . . . 

The lovelight in your eye, dear. 
Brings summertime to me. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 119 



LIFE'S SONG 



A love song echoed on the breeze, 

It was a breeze of morning; 
And, listening, I watched the sky, 

I watched the dew adorning 
The rosy buds upon each tree, 

I heard the robins singing; 
And down upon the ground I knelt. 

Where tender grass was springing. 

A song of passion filled the air. 

The heavy air of noon; 
And oh ! the sun beat hotly down, 

And blended with its tune. 
And I, I trembled in the glare, 

I shut my eyes, and falling — 
I knelt upon the parching grass. 

And heard my heart's wild calling. 

A song of triumph rent the wind. 

And tore the day in pieces — 
A song that always thrills the soul. 

Until each heartbeat ceases. 
I listened, filled with praise and awe. 

And with a cry of gladness, 
I knelt upon the leaf-strewn ground, 

Without a thought of sadness. 

A h3ami crept on the freezing gale, 
A hymn of peace and blessing; 



120 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

It robbed the evening of its dark; 

And oh ! my heart confessing, 
Ejielt down before the Lord of all, 

And low I crouched. The greying 
Shades of the night time softly came, 

And all the world seemed praying. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 121 



UNKNOWN 



I passed you on the street today, 

And passing, for a space, 
Your eyes met mine and seemed to say 

That sometime face to face — 
Our hearts might beat in perfect tune, 

Our hands might touch — and cling. 
Perhaps that meeting may be soon. 

Perhaps the years may bring 
No vision of you back to me — 

Ah, years may be so long ! 
And yet my soul will always see 

You, passing in the throng. 



122 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



HOUSE CLEANING 



"T N the spring a young man's fancy liglitly turns to 
J_ thoughts of love !" sang the poet. Perhaps it does, but 
the poet should have added quite a bit to his lay. He 
should have said other things about the season of budding 
flowers, and returning song birds, and smiling blue skies. 
He should have said, "In the spring a woman's fancy turns 
to thoughts of — house cleaning !" 

Just about this time of year, as the train that carries me 
to the city or back home again sweeps through pleasant little 
suburban towns, I notice a great flutter in the small houses 
that line narrow side streets. There is a vague atmosphere 
of pulling down curtains and beating rugs and washing 
windows and varnishing woodwork. If the train hesitates, 
as it often does, I catch sight of women in gingham aprons 
and dust caps, brandishing long mops and wicked looking 
brooms and placid dust pans. For in the springtime many 
women, in fact most women, feel a desire to polish and dust 
and clean, just as insistently as the tiny birds, returning 
from the Southland, feel a desire to build nests and start 
housekeeping in the branches of a spreading tree. 

I know a woman who gets a very bad attack of house 
cleaning fever every year. She takes worn clothes out of 
her closets, and smudges from her wall paper, and dust from 
her rugs, with a persistency that would do credit to a gen- 
eral pursuing an enemy. In her case the enemy is dust. 

Well, the woman cleans — religiously. She makes her 
family rather unhappy with the cleaning, for their most 
treasured possessions (that were not ornamental) disappear, 
and their clothes get full of holes, and they have no place 
to be comfortable in and not very much to eat. They come 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 123 

home at night to find her worn out with the heaviness of 
her work, peevish and unhappy. 

The woman cleans until the house is a dream of spotless, 
shining beauty, and then she sighs contentedly and breathes 
in the freshness of the spring air, and takes up the round 
of little duties that she has ignored for a week or two, and 
she smiles and feels happy and — lets the dirt collect in for- 
gotten corners so that next spring she may have another 
cleaning. And though her house grows dingy during the 
summer and autumn and winter months, she waits for return 
of the annual cleaning time. 

There is another kind of woman who, once a year, renews 
the old bits of furniture and faded draperies and worn rugs — • 
who polishes and washes and sweeps. But she takes her task 
leisurely, and every day a little more space is brightened and 
dressed up. At night when her family comes home they find 
her calm and interesting and sweet, and when at last her 
yearly cleaning is over her home looks just as well as the 
home that was worked over so very feverishly. Then during 
the year, instead of sitting by waiting for the return of 
spring, she keeps everything looking well, although she only 
cleans lightly. Both women have the right idea, but one is 
efficient and the other isn't ! 

I rather think that we all should do a little spring clean- 
ing every year; we should clear our minds and our souls as 
well as the actual homes that we live in. We should get rid 
of the garments we can no longer use, and we should burn 
up the reminders of unhappy thoughts and deeds. We should 
find out what part of our brain machinery is not running 
well, and we should repair it by reading, and thought, and 
prayer. We should polish our manners and put a new coat 
of the varnish of faith over any disillusionments, and we 
should wash the windows of our souls. And during the rest 
of the year we should try to keep our house smooth and 
dusted and in order. 

When I was a little girl I used to visit at my grandmother's 
home, and being a very active child I used to build tent^ 



124 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

with calling cards, and castles with books, and oceans with 
billowy manuscript papers. I used to put dolls to sleep in 
the soft, easy chairs, and I used to build marvelous robber 
caves and dungeons with huge sofa cushions. When I had 
been playing for a short time, the room looked as if it had 
been struck by a young and very lively tornado. There were 
papers and dolls and chairs and cushions strewn in such con- 
glomerate heaps that it was hard to distinguish any one 
object. 

One day I chose the drawing-room for my play house. I 
had a gorgeous time for hours and finally, tired, I settled down 
in front of the open fire and began to dream stories as I 
gazed into the wall of leaping flame. It was at this time 
that a visitor walked in and settled herself in a chair, while 
her card was sent up. She surveyed the scene with nearly 
indignant eyes. As I stole quietly out of the farthest door 
I lingered, fascinated by her sternness, in the shadow of the 
portiere. 

When my grandmother came in with cordially extended 
hand, the visitor spoke abruptly: 

"How you do let that child get dirt around the room," 
she said. 

My grandmother glanced about with quizzically raised 
eyebrows. Then she put a doll gently out of one of the 
chairs and sat down. 

"Oh — but it's clean dirt," she said in a tolerant tone. 

I stole away. 

Oh! friends of mine, if we must muss up the houses of 
our minds and our souls so that they need a spring cleaning, 
may the dirt be clean dirt, that though worthless and in the 
way, will be harmless and full of happy memories. 

"In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to 
thoughts of love," but a woman's turns intensely — ^to thoughts 
of house cleaning I 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 125 



THE MOLD OF HEROINES 



BEFOEE the war Eva Barath was a Hungarian telegraph 
operator. She sat on a chair in front of a switchboard 
and plugged at keys and sent out code messages (isn't 
that what telegraph operators do?) and received many aston- 
ishing or commonplace messages in reply. I do not doubt 
that some mornings seemed very blue to her as she left her 
warm bed and started for work; I would not be surprised to 
know that often, in the dull, tired evenings, she wished, as 
she guarded the singing wires, that she were a rich girl who 
could sit on a satin-covered divan and eat chocolates and read, 
with never a care to worry her. We all at times have wished 
that same wish — distorted, perhaps, or painted a little differ- 
ently on the outside — but the same wish. 

Before the war Eva Barath was a telegraph operator. But 
now that the war has been raging for three-quarters of a 
year she has stepped lightly before the public eye, and folk 
read about her and honor her. For Eva Barath is a heroine. 
This is the story : 

The telegraph oflSce where Eva worked was on the Servian 
frontier, and one day the girl, used by that time to the dis- 
tant rumble of guns, was surprised and probably frightened 
to hear them coming very near. Before she could realize 
the fact, grasp it in her brain, she knew by the terrifying 
whir of bullets and crash of machine guns that the battle 
was being fought only a breathing space from the door of 
her office. 

In a case like that I think a great majority of girls — 
girls brought up to dull work and utter peace — would have 
hurried as fast as possible from the spot, leaving their work 
unfinished and their hat and coat on the peg by the door. 



186 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Eva Barath didn't. She crouched low over her desk and, 
with an eye to the battle, began to plug at the little keys. 
A clicking sound answered her efforts. She was wiring news 
of the battle to headquarters. The shots rang heavily about 
her, and the air grew thick with smoke and horrible with 
screams. Oftentime the little building rocked on its founda- 
tions and the instrument itself, perhaps, almost broke. But 
Eva Barath stayed at her post until the office was destroyed 
by a Servian shell. Then, when she could no longer be of 
service to her country, she thought of herself. 

She had been a telegraph operator when she walked in to 
work that morning, but she was a heroine when she left. 
It was not many days before all Hungary was honoring her, 
not many days before she wore the country's highest reward, 
"the Cross of the Order of Merit," on the front of her simple 
little waist. 

It wasn't so long ago that the United States was thanking 
a girl who was as brave as Eva Barath in circumstances just 
about as trying. She was a telephone central, and it was 
during a great flood that she sat at her switchboard, while 
the water whirled up about her, warning folk of the terrible 
menace that crept toward them, swiftly, quietly, like a wolf 
in the night. She sent message after message until the valley 
of the flood was filled with hurrying families, who climbed 
to high places, where they watched their homes go down in 
the angry whirlpool, and thanked God that they had been 
saved — that they had been warned in time. 

As for the central — well, presently the water rose very 
high and the wires snapped, and the girl put down her head 
and went very quietly and peacefully, and I think I may say 
even contentedly, into her rest. She had done what she could. 
I like to think that in those last moments she was upheld by 
the divine Power which gives courage to the martyr — for 
she had truly given her life for others. Very many of her 
country-people may not recall her name, but the world still 
remembers the brave deed of the humble telephone girl. 

It's a wonderful thing to think of the divine workings of 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 127 

Providence when it comes to heroes and heroines. The opera- 
tor on the Servian frontier might have been the coward that 
she wasn't; the girl who telephoned news of the flood might 
jnst as well have fled to safety, but she didn't! Providence 
had cast their natures and hearts in the heroic mold, as the 
hour of trial proved. 

I went to luncheon a few weeks ago and heard several 
girls talking about bravery and critical situations, and hero- 
ines. I heard them wondering what they would do — if the 
chance came; what they would say — if they had to say any- 
thing; how they would act — if it was necessary for them to 
act at all. 

"I," said a fluffy little girl with large eyes, and an appeal- 
ing mouth, and small hands that made inadequate butterfly 
gestures, "I know that I could never be brave. I know that 
I'd never win an Iron Cross or a Legion of Honor medal if 
I were a soldier. Why, at the first shot I would lie down 
flat on the ground and hope that the bullets would fly over 
me; or I'd get behind a huge tree and pray that the guns 
would point in some other direction. If they came nearer 
after that I'd — I'd desert!" She laughed, and bit daintily 
into an olive. 

A tall girl with a dark, intense face spoke up. 

"I'm ashamed to hear you talk that way, Alicia," she said 
a trifle sharply. "You don't mean it — not a bit. You're only 
saying it to sound cunning ! Why, I'd like nothing better 
than to lead a troop under fire, a troop of soldiers that lis- 
tened to my voice, and waited for my step, and followed 
me — into death if need be ! Think of the thrill and the ex- 
citement — " 

"And the shrieks, and the blood, and the dying, and the 
machine guns," interposed the small blond girl. 

The dark girl opened her mouth — the very movement 
looked impolite. Then she shut her mouth — with a bang al- 
most. Her eyes flashed and she turned away, as a young 
Jeanne d'Arc might have turned away. 

I listened to them in silence, and I am rather inclined 



188 REAL PEOPLE — AND BREAMS 

to think that I sympathized with the little timid girl. I 
didn't exactly imagine that I would "thrill" at the sound of 
bugles, or be "excited" at the thought that I was leading 
others, perhaps to victory, probably to death. And as I 
thought very quietly about it all, I studied the two faces, 
the blond, childish one and the dark, stern, thoughtful one. 
I wondered vaguely what lay under the calm exteriors. I 
wondered if either of their hearts were cast in the mold of 
heroines, or if their words were little, insignificant things. 
I wondered, if there ever came a time of doing deeds, when 
there would be no time for talking, how each girl would act. 
Perhaps a gesture of the butterfly hand might do more to- 
ward quieting a panic, or soothing a multitude, or leading 
a troop than a flash of command from the dark eyes. 

Friends of mine, you must not say how you will act if 
something happens. Go along, day by day, doing your regu- 
lar tasks, and in that way prepare yourself for the emer- 
gency that you may some time have to meet. Eva Barath 
was able to be brave by doing, at an exceptional time, the 
same thing that she had always done, while others were try- 
ing to do something different. Most heroines are made that 
way. 

As for the mold — well, the mold of heroines is perhaps 
life and the conventions and the fears of life, that at times 
hide the real value that lies inside. But when the crisis 
comes, the moment of emergency, when hands tremble and 
brains whirl, when the coward is miraculously brave, and the 
brave one shows the white feather, if we have allowed the 
mold to shape us — our minds, our characters and our hearts — 
we shall come out with proud step and bright eyes, and folk 
will call us heroines. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 129 



GOD'S LITTLE CROSS 



'Ats a li'l dolly on my wagon draped wif flags, 

All w'apped up wif bandages — des like a so'jur boy; 
I'se a nurse in uniform . . . No one u'd ever guess 

'At I was des a li'l girl — an dolly's des a toy. 
My li'l dress is striped wif blue, an' on my head a cap 

Is standin' up as stiff as stiff, an' des as w'ite as snow. 
An' on my arm I wear a sign 'at people all will see — 

For every nurse is wearin' em' — God's li'l cross, you know. 

My doll's lyin' des as still — des like the ones 'at fall, 

When dey get hurted wif a gun 'at shoots 'em frough 
and frough; 
So on my wagon are some words 'at everybody says: 

'TiCt us have peace." (I'm wonderin' if dey will soon 
come true?) 
0' course I'm only playin', for I never saw 'em fight, 

I never saw 'em crying for ve houses tumbled low; 
But still I love to act pretends — 'at I'm a li'l nurse — 

An' on my arm I wear a cross, God's li'l cross, you know. 



130 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



LONELINESS 



The night wind howls in the forest, 

And the moon shines over the sea; 
And the stars gleam high in the Heavens, 

Away from the earth — and me. 
And the owl is calling, calling. 

Ah ! his cry is a mournful note, 
That strikes to the heart like a poisoned dart. 

While the sobs rise up in my throat. 

I lift my lamp with a shaking hand, 

And I close my door with a sigh; 
And I draw the blinds from the dark and gloom. 

But the ghosts of my life pass by ; 
And the night wind is just as dreary. 

As it was in the days of yore; 
And I close my heart from the pains that smart, 

While the memories crowd at my door. 

I see a face in the shadows. 

That is tender, and grave, and kind; 
But the shadows flee from a spirit shape, 

Drawn out of a troubled mind. 
And alone in the cold and darkness 

I pray, and my eyes are dim, 
Ah ! what do I care for a memory fair. 

When my heart has gone home — with him? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 131 



THE DESERTED MILL 



It stands alone and silent 
Beside the singing stream; 

And at the time of twilight 
The sunset's fading beam 

Rests on it like the shadow 
Of some forgotten dream. 

Its wheels have long been quiet; 

It braves the rain and snow; 
And yet its heart is aching 

With emptiness and woe; 
And I am sure it misses 

The grain that used to flow. 

Beneath its sloping shelter, 
In June the lovers stand, 

And tell a sweet old story 
That lives in every land. 

(They think that it is sleeping 
And does not understand !) 

It stands alone and wistful 
Beside the sighing stream; 

And at the time of twilight 
The sunset's dying beam 

Rests on it like the promise 
Of some forgotten dream. 



132 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THAT NIGHT 



That night, my dear, the skies were singing. 

The silver moon laughed softly down, 
And every flower sweet was springing. 

To God from out the earth so brown. 
That night, my love, the trees were leaning 

Together, and their blended shade, 
Gave every shadow, vague, a meaning, 

As if the angels near us strayed. 
That night, my own, the very sighing 

Of saddened hearts was turned to mirth; 
And everything was bright, undying, 

And Heaven touched the throbbing earth. 
Oh, every star was warm above me. 
That night when first you said you loved me! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 133 



THE BIRTHRIGHT 



The call of fields that are kissed with sun. 

And the flowers bathed in dew, 
And the roads that start from the very heart 

Of the Heaven's deepest blue. 
The playful breeze in the highest trees. 

And the brook with its singing note, 
And the songs that rise to the sunfilled skies. 

From the depths of a robin's throat. 
Oh ! the dusty town and the city wide. 

And the mill with its steady roar; 
The children pale with their bodies frail, 

And the gloom of a tight shut door. 

Little fingers that sew along. 

On the length of an endless seam ; 
And saddened eyes that have lost surprise, 

At the sound of an engine's scream ; 
A light grown dim as the shoulders slim, 

Bend over a knotted thread; 
And a childish mind that is dead and blind, 

In a drooping uncombed head. 
Oh ! God who reigns in a golden land. 

Look down from your throne above; 
Their cries are weak and the help they seek. 

Is only a little love ! 



134 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



CHRISTIANITY 



When yer bump against some feller in a trolley on th' street, 
Just because th' car is swayin', an' yer can't keep on yer feet ; 
If yer kick 'em on th' ankle, an' yer feelin' awful blue 
On account of you was clumsy — an' yer don't know what 

ter do. 
If yer try ter say, "I'm sorry — " an' yer hang yer head an' 

grin. 
Just as if yer don't know whether it's a joke or yet a sin; 
If that other feller tells yer, "I can hardly stand up too, 
Gee, this car is awful jerky," he's a Christian just like you. 

If yer goin' to a party an' yer break a china cup, 

An' yer bend, as red as fire, when yer pick th' pieces up; 

An' yer know that cup was costly, 'cause 'twas awful nice 

an' thin, 
An' yer wish th' floor would open so as you could sink 

right in. 
If yer say, "I didn't mean to, but my fingers sorter slide 
When I'm holdin' onto dishes !" an' yer wish that yer 

could hide. 
If yer hostess says, "Don't worry — 'twas th' best thing you 

could do — 
'Twas a cup I always hated!" she's a Christian just like 

you. 

Oh ! it don't make any diiference if th' chaps you see is grand. 
If they speaks ter you real proper, when they shakes yer 

by th' hand; 
An' it doesn't matter — awful — if their collars aren't clean, 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 135 

An' their fingers rough with workin' or their clothes is 

pretty mean. 
They kin use most fearful grammer an' kin stumble when 

they walk, 
They kin be outrageous clumsy when they try ter join 

th' talk; 
But — an' this is all important — if their hearts is kind an' true, 
An' they say th' words ter help yer — they are Christians 

just like you ! 



136 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



A NATION'S BIRTHDAY 



WHEN" your mother and sister and brother and father 
celebrate their birthdays, you kiss them, don't you, 
and wish them many happy returns and give them 
some gift to show them that you love them and wish them 
well? You do that every year, and every year the loving 
words that you say grow more tender, and the gifts that you 
give come from a heart more overflowing with affection. 

One hundred and thirty-nine years ago, a little nation 
was born in a small courthouse in Philadelphia. The little 
nation had many godfathers who wrote a remarkable birthday 
speech and signed their names, names that will live through 
history until the end of the centuries, for it was baptized in 
the blood of a great war. As the little nation grew older, 
it waxed strong and vigorous and greatly beloved, but it was 
looked upon scornfully at first by the other nations, who were 
old and aristocratic and loaded with family traditions, looked 
upon, maybe, as we would look at a romping child who plays 
by itself, laughing, through the golden hours of sunlight. 
And so it grew. 

At last a time came when the little nation became sick, 
and gasped, and almost died, while a great wound, as broad 
as a river, cut it nearly in two. But it struggled, with short 
tortured breaths, for life, and finally it began to grow better 
until, in another courthouse farther south, the wisest phy- 
sicians of the country proclaimed that it would again grow 
well and strong. As the years went by the scars from the 
great wound grew fainter and less distinct. In time they 
will be no more. . . . This nation, our nation, once small 
but now very great and very beautiful, celebrates its birthday 
every year on the Fourth of July. What do we give it for 
a present? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 137 

I was talking to a girl a few days ago who had just come 
home from her first trip to the national capital. I asked her 
what had impressed her most of all. 

"Why," she told me, "one day I went out to Washington's 
home at Mount Vernon. I went all through the beautiful 
rooms, and wandered around the lovely grounds until finally 
I came to a great tomb. It was Washington's tomb. As I 
stood in front of it, more or less impressed, I noticed that 
every man who passed by took off his hat. SomehoAv, that 
sight sent a deeper thrill into my heart than any other." 

It's a beautiful thing, this respect for a great man who 
has passed on. It is a beautiful thing to respect a great nation 
that is living. Eespect is one gift that we owe our country 
on its birthday. 

These are wonderful times — history-making times — that 
we are living in. We, every day, see something happening 
that has never happened before, or read of some startling de- 
parture from old laws to new. War clouds hang darkly just 
across the ocean, and oftentimes a bursting flame leaps out 
of the horizon. 

I remember, as a little child, playing in autumn with 
bonfires. It was a pastime that my mother did not approve 
of, so I was always closely guarded by watchful grown-ups 
who shooed me away from every gleaming ember that 
stretched snaky, inviting fingers in my direction. I would 
play around the fire happily, because I knew that the grown- 
ups would not allow me to get burned ; and when the glowing 
sparks had died away and grey ashes had taken the place 
of the leaping fiame walls, I would be unhurt, and my hands 
would not even be soiled by the smoke and soot. 

It isn't the easiest thing in the world to play with fire 
and never suffer from burns. It isn't the easiest thing in 
the world to stand in the light of a glowing wood-pile and 
come out with clean hands. If I had been alone while I 
watched the bonfire, I would probably have been seriously 
burnt. I would surely have been scorched a bit and made 
very dirty. Over across the ocean the fire may be very red 



138 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

with blood and flames; it may be very black with ashes and 
smoke and misery; but if we have faith in the little nation 
(now grown big) and in the wise and capable minds helping 
to guide this nation, the fire may leave us unburned. It 
may leave us with clean hands. 

That's another birthday gift that we owe to our country — 
the gift of faith. 

Once, as I was walking through the East Side of the city, 
I saw two little boys fighting. Before long other little boys, 
friends of the first two, rushed toward the scene of combat 
and took sides in the fight there in the street. Angry words 
and large stones and a few tin cans were flung from one 
side to the other, until the uproar could be heard at quite 
a distance, and a crowd started to gather. Every available 
child for blocks around seemed to be in the midst of the 
melee, and because it was impossible to get through the 
crush of surging humanity I lingered there on the outskirts 
and watched with wide eyes until I saw a broad-shouldered 
policeman pushing himself into the thick of the fight with 
a club raised threateningly over the not very large com- 
batants. As I turned to go through a side street, I heard 
a small chuckle at my side, and looked down into the face 
of a tiny boy who had made no attempt to join in the com- 
bat. As I looked a smile wreathed his dirty cherub face, 
and he winked with a deliberate flicker of long lashes over 
dark eyes. 

"You aren't fighting?" I questioned in wonder. Every 
little boy in the world seemed to be fighting there on the 
sidewalk. 

"Naw !" said my small companion. 

"But isn't anyone a friend of yours ?" I questioned again, 
eager for information ; "isn't there anyone you want to help ?" 

The child looked up into my face with a twinkle of rogu- 
ish eyes. "Ain't I helpin' more by keepin' out of it?" he 
asked me. 

We owe our country that kind of help on its one hundred 
and thirty-ninth birthday. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 139 

Have you ever been in a great hall, or at some huge 
band-stand, listening with the mixed crowd to the music of 
an orchestra? Have you ever noticed how some people were 
listening to the classical selections with rapt faces, while 
others were frankly bored ? Have you ever noticed how some 
people will sneer in disgust at the ragtime that other folk 
smile at while their feet beat time on the ground ? And then, 
when you have gotten the picture in your mind — and it's a 
picture of great contrast — have you ever heard the different 
instruments take up the melody of an old song, and as 
the violins and the cellos and the flutes blended together 
softly in the first chords, have you ever seen smiles chase 
away frowns, while hats came off and the audience, at last 
united in spirit, rose to its feet? That happens whenever 
a band or an orchestra or even a hurdy-gurdy plays the 
"Star-Spangled Banner," and loyal citizens are near at hand. 

Oh, our little nation is grown up now; it is no longer 
a child playing in the sun, for it has grown-up cares and 
grown-up difficulties. Since, each year, it grows nearer and 
dearer to us, on its birthday we should give it gifts. The 
greatest gift is love. 



140 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK 



SOMEWHEEE ' across the room a clock struck in a 
peevish way, but Ellen Thompson only leaned closer 
to the pad and pushed her pen firmly — albeit wearily — 
along the dull blue lines. One hand, the fingers buried in 
her tousled brown hair, twitched suddenly and the head 
drooped just the fraction of an inch. Her wide, unnaturally 
wide grey eyes followed the wavering line of her pen, as if 
she made them stay open by sheer will-power, and her 
slippered foot beat nervously on the wooden leg of her 
desk. 

''Oh !" she murmured, "My arm's asleep, my feet jump, 
my head's a vacuum. "Oh !" she half groaned, "my hand 
aches like — fury." The twitching foot stopped for a moment, 
the sleepy arm wiggled, the vacuum head drooped a bit 
lower, but the aching hand never hesitated, the wide eyes 
never left the blue line on the paper as the words clattered 
hurriedly into sentences — pages rumbled achingly into 
chapters. 

"It's the most wearing thing I've ever done," thought 
Ellen Thompson, even while some other part of her mind 
kept the plot spinning on, "and the biggest. It's going to 
get me somewhere at last," she thought, even while her 
hero was dying artistically on a snowy country lane. "It 
must be done tomorrow," she moaned as she made her 
heroine shriek and crumple up in a silent white heap. 

The night hours wore on, blinking ghastly-faced hours 
that walked softly past her chair with cold, gleaming eyes 
and death-like, clutching fingers. The hand that guided 
the pen faltered once, and the girl who pushed it choked 
back a sob. Outside between tall rows of buildings a sullen 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 141 

night wind moaned a dirge that beat rhythmically with the 
pounding words that wavered uncertainly before settling 
down, on the neat blue-lined page. A chill breath of air 
crept over her ankles, embraced her knees, but still she 
wrote, flogging warmth and enthusiasm into her tired mind. 

A man in the death house at Sing Sing knows, instinc- 
tively, shrinkingly, as the days pass that everything must, in 
the nature of things, end. A school girl, shuddering through 
a thunderstorm, knows that it will be over in time, even 
though she stuffs insufficient fingers into her ears and cries 
inefficient tears into the softness of her pillow. When Ellen 
Thompson, with a dry gasp, dropped her pen sprawlingly 
on the table and flung her spinning head into the depths of 
her arms, she felt that she would never be rested enough, but 
she knew that she was finished — that her work, as it stood, 
would be accepted — more than accepted — as her best. The 
numb coldness crept up through her brain and she slept sud- 
denly, her face buried in her arms — her arms clasped on a 
pile of manuscript. 

In the stillness of her room the clock started to strike, 
hesitated, and coughed spasmodically. It had broken down. 

It is a rather pitiful thing to see a clock break down. 
Some little French clocks stop counting the hours because 
they are ornamental, too ornamental to have competent ma- 
chinery; and some huge grandfather clocks stop running 
from sheer ancientness. But when a modern, well-built little 
clock stops ticking because its delicate machinery has been 
overstrained, watchmakers and jewelers wonder — and very 
often fail in their remedies. I think that there are a great 
many human clocks — the ornamental French kind, the an- 
cient kind, and the delicate, efficient modern kind. I think, 
too, that the Great Watchmaker often wonders — . 

The price that Ellen Thompson received for the Big Story 
was pitifully small, but she looked radiant as she held the 
check in payment for it in her hand. It meant a month, at 
least, without worry about clothes, and rent, and food. It 
meant that for the first time she was ahead of the game. 



142 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Ellen Thompson took one week of rest. Feeling strangely 
weary and unambitious at the end of the seventh day she 
took another week of rest. At the beginning of the third 
week she put on a new suit, a new hat, a set of new furs 
and started out for a walk. She had often heard it said 
that folk found inspiration in walks. She came home fresh 
and happy, but with no desire to write. She sat down that 
evening to count her money. It was much more than half 
gone. The week crept on in a sombre way. Oftentimes 
Ellen sat down with a pencil in her hand and tried to put 
thoughts into a story, but her thoughts were vague, and her 
words came haltingly and her plot failed to materialize. At 
the beginning of the fourth week she sent a story to the 
magazine that published her work. It was a short, badly 
written story with a weak plot and characters that were 
mere puppets. Even she could see that. At the end of the 
fourth week it came back with a curt note. 

"Dear Miss Thompson," said the note, "I am sorry that 
I have to send this story back. To be frank with you, it is 
not up to your best work. Try to do something that is 
like your Big Story." It was signed with the editor's name. 

At the beginning of the fifth week Ellen Thompson 
began to see that she was no longer ahead of the game. 
She began to wish that she had not bought furs, and a 
suit, and a hat. She began to pray that she could do some- 
thing really good. She took to sitting at a desk with her 
pencil in her hand, writing sentences on paper that were 
ultimately thrown away. She read the first installment of 
the Big Story with wonder — fear almost. She began to 
question herself, she even tried to copy her own style. But 
the next story was sent back with another brusque note. 
"Not good enough," said the note. 

At the end of the sixth week Ellen Thompson went to 
the magazine office. And there she was quite frankly told 
that her work was not good. 

"It wasn't your best," they told her, "and it's only your 
best that people want. What seems to be the matter?" 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 143 

Ellen Thompson didn't know. She went home and cried 
until her head ached and her throat was sore. 

Some poets say that Hope is the most beautiful thing in 
the world. Perhaps it is, but oftentimes it is the most mis- 
leading thing. Hope, a hope that turned from beauty to 
veritable bitterness buoyed Ellen Thompson along and 
smoothed over a few of the roughest places. She tried steadily 
to write— and failed just as steadily. Blindly she turned to 
verses and advertising copy, but there was no opening. And 
then at last one day it dawned on her that she might never 
be able to write again, that she might never do anything 
to back up her one piece of good work. That night she sat 
long at her desk, furiously scribbling with no interruption. 
Not even the clock ticked — it was broken ! 

The finished story was short — and puny. She sobbed as 
she read it. Still there was a vague hope in her heart as 
she tramped toward the magazine office. Perhaps the story 
seemed bad because she was expecting it to seem bad; per- 
haps it had some spark of genius that she, uneducated to 
genius, could not discover. 

The hope was short-lived. The editor was too busy to 
be seen. He had never been too busy in the days when the 
Big Story was being written. Brusquely, peevishly almost, 
he called his secretary to him. 

"Smythe," he growled, "it's that Thompson girl again. 
Glance over her stuff and if it has any glimmerings of in- 
tellect bring it in to me. If not — give it back. That girl 
is a disappointment." The incident was closed abruptly and 
the secretary went out to meet "that girl." The story had 
no glimmerings. 

Back again in her room Ellen Thompson sank into a 
chair. What was the way out? She picked up a pen; once 
it had been as light as a feather dipped in dreams; now it 
was wood. She flung it from her. She looked at the mantle, 
and the silent clock mocked her. All at once she realized 
that she and the clock were both failures — broken. She 
realized that a certain something had left them both. 



144 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Out in the street a clang sounded. It was an ambulance 
rushing by. Like a flash she remembered that there was 
always a way — a coward's way — but, a way! There was 
the river, or poison, or a grinding death beneath car wheels. 
With nerveless fingers she pinned on her hat, opened the 
door. 

The room behind her was very still. The stairs were a 
series of tortured black blots with a grinning demon crouch- 
ing on each one of them. Every landing held a tantalizing 
ghost figure that pointed a long, mocking finger out of the 
gloom. Like some broken wildflower, like some torn young 
tree, Ellen Thompson crept down flight after flight until 
she reached the door. She paused for a second, irresolute, 
on the threshold and then suddenly struck out in the direc- 
tion of the river. Elvers are more comfortable than car 
wheels, less nauseating than poison. Your careful, com- 
plete suicide chooses the easiest way. 

The night was rather chilly and very dark. The city 
seemed to be sleeping — a drowsy, fevered rest — but still sleep- 
ing. Lights gleamed dimly through a thin fog, figures jostled 
against each other and broke away with hoarse-voiced mur- 
murings. Unexplainably the girl felt that she was alone in 
a ghost-ridden world, and as she trudged along her loneliness 
and her trouble rose up mountain-like before her. 

A hand organ was playing a popular song on one earner 
and a sad-looking little monkey crept around with a small 
tin cup in his hand. Eor some reason Ellen Thompson felt 
less lonely when she saw him. He was tiny and tired — per- 
haps troubled, too. She had a wild desire, since she could 
no longer write, to carry a tin cup like the forlorn little 
animal. Quite suddenly she laughed and there was a note 
of hysteria in her voice. 

A small park rose before her, a lonely little park built 
on a rocky bit of ground. Somewhere on the other side of 
that park lay the river — somewhere across a tiny space of 
rocky, grassy field lay the answer — the great answer to every- 
thing ! 




WHEN sunshine paints the sky with gold, 
And crimson streaks the west; 
When every bird has settled down 
Into its tiny nest — 
When evening quiet fills the farm. 

My sorrows from me fall, 
For, as I watch, the ducks come home 
To answer Molly's call. 



The barnyard noise has died away^ 

Into a drowsy hum, 
The cows and pigs and horses wait/ 

For supper time to come. .-i^ 

Ah, somehow as I stand and watch,' 

Life seems serene and sweet, 
When Molly calls her feathered flock. 

And gives them food'to eat. 



m 









REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 145 

A line of trees rose gaunt and starved-looking to meet a 
row of narrow, cold iron benches. There was a woman in a 
shawl huddled on one of them, a pair of whispering lovers 
sat on the farthest one. The mist made a grey frame around 
them all. 

Quite suddenly Ellen Thompson felt a weak sensation 
in her knees. She wondered childishly if they were made 
of jelly. Over across the park lay the river; she tried to 
push on but the traitor knees failed her. She sank limply 
on the edge of the nearest bench — the bench that the woman — 
the shawl- wrapped woman, was sitting on. All at once she 
felt a wild desire to cry. 

The shawl-wrapped woman looked up sharply as Ellen 
Thompson sank down on the bench. Her face, seen mistily 
through the fog, looked white and drawn and hopeless. She 
gazed long at the girl and then suddenly her eyes dropped 
to a huddled bunch that lay under the shawl on her lap. 
All at once it moved, and she gave a dry, despairing sob. 

"Oh ! God— God ;" she cried. 

Ellen Thompson looked with startled eyes at the other 
end of the bench. Thoughts, blurred thoughts, swept through 
her troubled brain. Selfishly she was almost glad that other 
people were sad — that other prayers went unanswered. 

"God — God — " moaned the woman. "He's dyin', my 
baby." 

Like a flash the cloak of Ellen Thompson's indifference 
fell from her shoulders. Why, there was a bahy wrapped 
in the shawl. She might have known — but then it was such 
a quiet baby — perhaps — 

The woman was moaning again. Her white face, lifted 
appealingly to the sky, was strained with despair and fear. 

"He's dyin'," she muttered. "God— God!" 

Swiftly Ellen Thompson rose to her feet. Two short 
steps took her to the shawl-wrapped woman's side. 

"Can I help?" she questioned timidly. 

The woman raised haggard eyes to her face. One thin 
hand swept away the shawl. 

10 



146 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

"My baby," she sobbed weakly, "my baby!" 

Ellen Thompson, in the old days, had known many 
mothers with fat, placid, well-fed babies. She always pic- 
tured them with cherub faces and innocent blue eyes. Some- 
times at night the vision of them came to her and left her 
lonely, with outstretched arms. She loved babies and yet 
she started back, with a cry, at the thin wraith of a child 
that lay silent in the shawl-wrapped woman's lap. Its little 
face was pinched and blue, its great eyes were filled with a 
vague terror and the shadow of death stretched a menacing 
hand toward its throat. With a half sob Ellen Thompson 
fell on her knees in the path while her hands gripped on 
the woman's ragged skirt. 

"What's the matter with him?" she asked breathlessly. 

"No home," said the woman gruffly. Her voice was heavy 
with unshed tears. "No food — cold." Her voice broke sud- 
denly. 

Like a flash of lightning it struck Ellen Thompson that 
she could do no good after all. Her purse was nearly empty — 
her money was gone. Perhaps in a week she would have no 
home — perhaps tomorrow she would herself be dead — drowned 
at the bottom of the river. Her hands loosened their hold 
on the woman's skirt. 

"I have very little," she sobbed — "very little, but — " she 
thrust her thin purse into the woman's hand. "But perhaps 
this will help — some." 

The woman in the shawl looked passively at the purse 
in her hand. Her lips curled contemptuously as she looked, 
and her eyes grew hard. 

"A little money," she sneered. "It's not money that he 
needs, it's a doctor, a miracle. It's God's hand he needs!" 

The baby lay on its back and stared blankly up at the 
misty sky. Every few minutes a slow shudder crept over his 
tiny form, crept over his small white face. As the girl 
looked she too felt that only a miracle could save him. 

She looked at the purse, the pitifully small purse, she 
looked at the baby and at the cold, grey mistiness. Not 



nEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 147 

far off the young lovers rose to go, and their hands touched 
softly as they walked into the foggy distance. 

"Oh ! God, a miracle !" she prayed as she rose slowly 
to her feet. 

God has different ways of sending miracles. The un- 
initiated sometimes call them coincidence, or mental telep- 
athy, or chance, but they are God's miracles in common- 
place form. As Ellen Thompson rose to her feet she saw 
the answer to her prayer coming down the path. 

The Miracle was a medium-sized young man in a loose 
coat, with a felt hat pulled over his eyes. He switched at 
the small trees with a light cane and whistled softly as he 
walked. 

The woman in the shawl was sobbing wildly as she 
clutched the little, nearly rigid form in her arms, but Ellen 
Thompson looked at the approaching figure with a feeling 
of comfort and awe. Perhaps, on this silent night, in this 
sleeping city, God had, after all, li.stened. 

The Miracle was very near now. Ellen Thompson clasped 
her hands nervously and watched him. Everything — the 
shawl-wrapped woman, the baby, the night, even, was 
strangely quiet. She stepped out into the path. 

"Oh, Sir!" she grasped, "Oh — please — " her voice was 
imploring. .'*-f« .it 

The Miracle stopped in his tracks. His face — outlined 
vaguely in the greyness — showed a faint interest, a faint 
surprise. 

"What — " he murmured. 

The woman on the bench leaned forward and her wan 
eyes gazed up into the man's face. Quite suddenly one of 
her thin hands shot out and grasped his coat sleeve. Wildly 
she began to cry. 

"It's him— it's him," she sobbed. "It's th' doctor !" Her 
sobs drowned out the rest. 

Like a straw, swept away on the tide of circumstance, 
Ellen Thompson stepped out of the path. She felt like an 
onlooker peering onto the stage of a great theatre from a 



148 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

seat in the wings. The shawl-wrapped woman had forgotten 
her. The Miracle was kneeling where she had knelt on the path. 

"It's Mrs. Murphy !" he exclaimed, and there was real 
surprise in his pleasant voice — "It's Mrs. Murphy — and in 
trouble — " he paused. 

With a movement, at once hopeless and trusting, the 
woman drew the shawl away from the baby's wasted little 
form. 

"It's my baby," she whispered — "it's my baby ! He's 
dyin' — and I didn't know where to' go an' I'm new in this 
place — " her voice died away. 

The Miracle was not listening. His hands, infinitely 
tender, were loosening the dress at the baby's throat, smooth- 
ing the damp hair from its pale forehead. Ellen Thompson, 
fascinated, drew nearer. 

"Can I — help?" she questioned. 

The Miracle looked up briefly. His eyes took in the 
white girl face, the sad eyes, the wistful mouth. 

"You can run," he told her abruptly, "to the nearest 
drug store — any store. Telephone for the Charity Hospital's 
ambulance. Tell 'em to come here." He bent his head over 
the baby. 

Ellen Thompson stooped to pick up her flat little purse. 
In the moment of emergency she remembered that it costs 
five cents to telephone. Then, with knees no longer weak, 
she ran. The river lay in the opposite direction. 

Time, at a crisis, either runs exceedingly fast or creeps 
in a terrible, slow manner. It seemed only a few seconds 
when Ellen Thompson, after hurrying to the store, phoned 
and found herself back again beside the park bench. But 
the Miracle had his coat spread on the grass and was work- 
ing silently over a wraith-like little figure that lay stretched 
upon it. As one in a daze the girl passed the shawl-wrapped 
woman who sat strangely huddled on a bench, and knelt 
down on the other side of the improvised bed. Unused to 
sick people, unused to physical suffering of any sort, she 
found herself feverishly following directions, vaguely helping. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 149 

Once she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all — that she, 
Ellen Thompson, who had gone out to take a life was saving 
one. 

The ambulance came at last with a clanging of bells and 
a jangling of machinery, and a white uniformed interne 
sprang out. The Miracle straightened up and lifted the baby 
in his arms. His face was smiling whitely as he looked over 
the small bundle at the shawl-wrapped woman. 

"Your baby," he said slowly, "will live." 

The shawl-wrapped woman gave a great cry and stumbled 
to her feet. Ellen Thompson, looking at her face, was re- 
minded of a famous madonna that she had seen in a museum. 
All at once she blinked to keep the great tears from her lashes. 

The Miracle turned to the interne. "Take these two to 
the hospital," he ordered — "and take care of 'em. Feed the 
woman and be careful of the baby — he's a very sick kid !" 

The interne took the baby into tenderly skillful arms 
and walked away toward the ambulance, but the shawl- 
wrapped woman, hurrying after, paused by the Miracle's 
side. One hand grasped his arm, the other groped for Ellen. 

"May God bless you," she sobbed, "may God bless you !" 
Her eyes wandered from one face to the other. "Some day 
when you've children of your own you'll understand !" she 
told them brokenly. She hurried after the interne and 
Ellen Thompson was left alone with the Miracle. The 
park was filled with a soft, throbbing darkness, strangely 
fraught with mystery. The sky sang and the earth answered. 
Ellen Thompson smiled. Her purse was light, but then her 
heart was curiously light, too. 

The Miracle saw the smile. With a firmly molded hand 
he lifted the hat from his head and looked thankfully up 
at the dim stars that tried to gleam through the greyness of 
the sky. Suddenly he too smiled and his smile was good to see. 

"Perhaps," he ventured, "perhaps you'll let me take you 
home? It's rather late. And since we've come together 
under rather odd circumstances, you'll tell me your name? 
I'm Doctor Harvey." 



150 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Very few people who go out, wearily, to commit suicide, 
come back with attractive young Miracles named Dr. Harvey. 
It was not hard for the girl to tell him her name, and before 
they had gone many blocks Ellen Thompson found herself 
confiding her business, and her ambitions; her hopes and 
her successes. For some reason she did not tell him of her 
discouragements and her fears. It seemed quite natural to 
be walking away from the river toward her home. She 
forgot the Big Story, the clock that had stopped ticking. The 
city was no longer ghost-ridden — it was the city of the Sleep- 
ing Beauty and she was a fairy princess. 

The Miracle talked, too. He told how he had received 
his training in a far-off city and how Mrs. Murphy (the 
shawl-wrapped woman) had been one of the cooks in a large, 
grim building where he had first dashed about on an am- 
bulance and answered emergency calls. It was a mighty 
queer coincidence, he said, that he should have been the 
means of helping the kind Irish woman who had, not so 
long ago, smuggled pie and cake to the lonely boy that he 
had been. He told of her disappearance from his sight, of 
his call to another city, but he did not need to tell about 
the strange meeting in the park — Ellen had seen that. He 
too had hopes and ambitions that he confided boyishly. 

The walk to Ellen Thompson's door was not very long. 
It was with a start that she paused suddenly before the stone 
steps and held out her hand. 

'''It's goodbye!" she said regretfully. 

The Miracle took the hand in both of his. All at once 
his eyes looked deep into hers, looked until a flush rose up 
over her cheeks. She felt a sudden warm beating in her 
temples. It was not unpleasant. 

"Do you believe in fate ?" he questioned suddenly, breath- 
lessly — almost. "Well, it was fate that brought you and 
then me to the park this night." His grasp on her hands 
tightened and Ellen Thompson, for one throbbing moment 
could feel his pulses stirring madly against her own. "I 
may see you again?" he questioned hoarsely. 



BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 151 

Ellen Thompson jerked her hand away. Something in 
her breast was singing a glorious Te Deum. 

"Yes," she murmured softly and fled through the doorway. 

Coming down the stairs had been a ladder leading to a 
bottomless pit. There had been a grinning demon on each 
step. Going up a light from heaven shone across her way 
and a smiling cherub dwelt in each shadow. She opened the 
door of her room and lighted the gas. 

It was all as she had left it. The desk, the pile of manu- 
script, the mantle, its silent clock; but Ellen Thompson 
smiled as she crossed the room. She had gone out, beaten 
by circumstances, but in the space of a few hours she had 
seen tragedy and comedy, commonplaces and miracles, life 
and death and — the beginning of love ! With firm fingers 
she lifted the clock from its place. 

"You're still," she said, "still as — the grave, and worn 
out and done, but I'm — I'm alive !" Her voice broke as 
she thought of herself, brought pale and dead, with dripping 
hair, from the river. All at once she laughed and there 
was a note of triumph in her voice. 

"You can be quiet all day," she said, "and I don't care !" 
With a fling of her arm she tossed the clock into the corner. 

It was a night of miracles. The clock struck heavily on 
the floor and lay with its little white face staring at the ceil- 
ing. Perhaps it was the bang, perhaps it was just God, but 
all at once — as many human clocks do — it gave a little cough 
and took up the work that it had been made to do. It began 
to strike the hour that it had never finished. 

Ellen Thompson crossed to her desk. There was a pen 
lying on it and a pile of loose papers. Suddenly she sat 
down in her little chair. She thought of the getting- well baby 
and the Big Story. She thought of the doctor who was 
coming again. She smiled. 

In the corner the little clock lay face upwards. It ticked 
merrily. . . . Elleji Thompsori took up her pen and 
began to write. 



152 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



JIMMY NEALAN'S SACRIFICE 



Through the corn-field troops were dashing, 
Shot and shell 

Turned the waving golden glory- 
To a hell. 

Horses screamed and wounded heroes 
Writhed, and lay 

Silent in the summer splendor. 
Of the day. 

Poppies grew among the cornstalks, 

Not as red 
As the vivid spots of color, 

Where the dead 
Lay in crumbled useless torment. 

Cannons spoke 
Sharply through a veil that quivered . . . 

Powder smoke. 

Jimmy Nealan scouted bravely 

Through the corn. 
He had been at work — yes, killing — 

Since the morn. 
All alone he crawled and fired. 

Till at last 
Something, whirring swiftly, held him 

Still and fast. 

Minds in battle are unsteady: 

Jimmy lay 
Stiff and silent, watching armies 

Dash away. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 153 

"God!" he murmured, as he lay there, 

"Am I dead?" 
Blood was on his shirt, and dripping 

From his head. 

Cornstalks golden make a halo 

In the sun — 
Jimmy, lying senseless — almost, 

Thought of one 
Who had hair that gleamed as golden, 

Cheeks as red 
As the poppy flowers, scattered 

By the dead. 

"Will she know," he pondered slowly, 

"Where I fell? 
Will she cry for me, I wonder. 

When they tell ? 
Will she know that I was fighting 

Till the last? 
Will she know my thought was of her 

When I passed?" 

Jimmy groaned, as if an answer 

Came a cry, 
"Oh! dear Father," sounded faintly, 

"If I die— 
Who will keep my wife — my children 

Free from fear?" 
Jimmy, moving, saw a soldier 

Lying near. 

Jimmy tried to smile and couldn't, 

Swift he spoke; 
"Gee, that's tough!" he murmured softly 

Through the smoke. 



154 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

"It ain't awful hard — this djdng 

'Cross the foam, 
When yer haven't got a family, 
Waitin' home." 

On the soldier's face beside him. 

Terror cold . 
Stamped the features that were always 

Brave and bold. 
Fever made his eyes glow brightly 

Like some gem — 
"God !" he cried, "don't take me with you, 

Leaving them !" 

Jimmy stretched a hand out slowly. 

Then he spoke — 
Very soft his voice, and feeble 

Lest he choke. 
"Tell a feller 'bout yer fambly, 

Pard," he said, 
"It's such tired work — this lying 

Half way dead." 

On the soldier's ghastly features 

Crept a smile, 
"Boy," he said, "I'll tell a story 

Worth your while. 
There's a wife — her picture lying 

On my breast — 
And three kiddies — say they're dandies, 

Are the rest ! 

They were brave when I was going. 

Bless their hearts; 
But I know I leave a vacant 

Place that smarts. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 155 

And my wife, when last she kissed me, 

Whispered low : 
'Boy, be brave, and come back — for — I 

Love— you — so !' " 

Just about tlie most distressing 

Sight to stand 
Is a strong man crying weakly. 

Jimmy's hand 
Eubbed across his eyes and aching 

Filled his brain. 
(For at last he knew the awful 

Depths of pain.) 

Shadows flickered on the corn field, 

All was still. 
But a distant roar of battle 

From the hill — 
All alone the dead and dying 

Gasping lay. 
In the glowing sunset splendor 

Of the day. 

Twilight came and very faintly 

From afar. 
Shone the first vague silver glory 

Of a star. 
Jimmy heard a stifled breathing, 

And he guessed 
That his wounded friend was gaining 

Needed rest. 

Jimmy sighed, and watched the night time 

Creeping dark. 
In among the waving corn stalks. 

Watched some spark 



156 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Crawling slow across the hill-top 

Far away — 
Jimmy gasped and speaking vaguely. 

Tried to pray. 

"Now I lay me," murmured Jimmy, 

"Down to sleep. 
God of all the hosts of battle. 

Let me keep 
Brave until the end o'ertakes me. 

Let me rest, 
Like a little child that slumbers. 

On your breast!" 

Suddenly across the corn-field. 

Walked a form — 
White his suit, as snow that glistens 

In a storm. 
On his sleeve he wore a symbol 

Poppy red — 
And he murmured soft to Jimmy, 

"Are you dead?" 

Jimmy gasped — his prayer was answered — 

Whispers came. 
To his lips grown stiff and blackish. 

"In His name, 
Who are you that comes?" he murmured, 

"Will you save 
Me an' him — my wounded comrade — 

From th' grave?" 

Swiftly bent the doctor over, 

"Well," he frowned, 
"I've a stretcher — only one here — 

On the ground. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 157 

I can take you or the other, 

Not the two — 
He's asleep, he'll know no difference. 

Him or you?" 

All the heroes do not perish 

In the light, 
Jimmy's tired eyes stared weakly, 

Through the night. 
In each star a face was glowing . . . 

Yes, the girl. 
Corn silk was her soft hair blowing 

All a-curl. 

Jimmy tried to speak — but didn't 

For a sound 
Came to him from that faint sleeper 

On the ground. 
And the tears that touched his cheekbones 

Made a track. 
For his comrade murmured, "Darling, 

I'll come back!" 

Jimmy rose upon his elbow, 

And he faid. 
As the lifeblood spurted fiercely. 

From his head, 
"I ain't got no wife," he shivered, 

As from shock; 
"He's a better man than I am. 

Take him. Doc !" 



158 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



PASTURE LAND 



The shadows fall, a velvet brown, 

Across a stretch of pasture land ; 
The trees are silent, scarce a breath 

Of wind is stirring. God's own hand 
Has smoothed the troubles of the world 

Away to some far distant shore; 
What though the echo of a gun 

Proclaims that somewhere there is war? 

The grass is short, and heavy feet 

Have worn it level with the soil; 
The cows have cropped the clover blooms, 

And, coming from his daily toil. 
The farmer pauses in the shade. 

And breathes, perhaps, an honest prayer. 
To thank his God for health and peace, 

And summer in a world so fair. 

When shadows fall, a velvet brown. 

To tell that toil, and day, must cease, 
When all the world, its trees and grass. 

Is covered with a veil of peace — 
Then let our feet, that may be worn, 

Pause for a bit, that we may stand 
Among the cows, and send a prayer 

To God from his own pasture land. 



nEAL PEOPLE — AND DEEAMS m) 



A POOR MAN'S LOVE LETTER 



If one is very very poor, 

And humble, too, 
And yet, if one with all his heart 

Loves only you ! 
If one whose very eyes when closed 

Can see your grace — 
If one, in every dream at night, 

Dreams just your face, 

If one, when tired can not rest. 

Because your eyes 
Look at him from each quiet nook 

With sweet surprise — 
If one is sure, oh ! very sure. 

That years away 
There'll be no heart-throb less of love, 

Than lives to-day. . . . 
Oh ! dear, you know — you surely know, 

My hope so true. 
But: 

If one has just oneself to give, 
What can one do? 



160 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE WORLD OF SAND 



All alone in a world of sand, 

By the side of a smiling sea, 
A small girl played with a wooden spade. 

As happy as she could be. 
The sun beamed down on her dimpled feet, 

The wind kissed her ruffled hair — 
And she ruled in a land, a world of sand 

That was vast to her eyes — and fair ! 

All alone in a world of sand. 

By the side of a summer sea. 
She used her shoe (and her stocking too) 

To fashion her castles wee. 
The waves sang softly to see her there, 

And high where the sunbeams shone. 
The angels smiled as they watched the child 

Who played in her world — alone. 

All alone in a world of sand. 

By the side of a roaring sea, 
We often roam, who are far from home; 

God, that we might be free 
To cast our cares on the summer wind. 

To take up a spade in hand. 
And learn to play, in a childish way. 

In the heart of a world of sand! 




GEESE 



'r- 



When folk do silly, foolish things. 

Then people laugh, and cry: 
"Why, they are geese ! " and yet, you know, 

I often wonder why. 
For geese are stately, queenly birds, 

loo grave to fly or sing; 
And I have never seen a goose 

That did a foolish thing. 

An ostrich has been famed in jokes. 

Because he hides his head; 
And chickens run across the road, 

'Neath cars that leave them dead — 
But geese — they walk with solemn grace; 

They seldom shriek or call; 
Perhaps you'd like, for all folk say. 

To be one after all! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 161 



WHEN NIGHT COMES 



The night steals up all dark and grey. 
The cliffs rise bleak and cold; 

And not a beam is in the sky, 
To touch the waves with gold. 

And yet I know that when the day 
Has come, the night will slip away. 

And sunbeams bright will dance and play. 

When night steals up all grim and dark. 
When cliffs rise cold and grey; 

Eemember that it is the night, 
Remember that the day 

Will touch the brooding sky with blue. 
The sun will send its light, and you 

Will find your hopes and dreams come true ! 



11 



162 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE THINGS THAT ARE HARD 
TO GET 



"X"TTHAT shall I do?" whined the cross little girl as 

y y she slapped her doll with a tiny, dimpled hand. 

"What shall I do ? I'm tired of my governess, and 

my books. I'm tired of playing and having tea parties — I'm 

tired." 

"I'm bored to death," muttered the blas6 schoolgirl as 
she conjugated her French verbs. "I hate our parties, and 
our basketball, and our clubs. The girls are always the 
same and the boys are never interesting. I'm bored to death." 

"What's the use of it all?" murmured the woman who 
had tasted only the sweets of life; "the round of gaiety, the 
hypocrisy, the scandal ! I hate to gossip, and yet I can't 
help it. It's born in me. I hate to play bridge and go to 
endless dinners. I'm growing old and the world is beginning 
to pass by on the other side of the street. What's the use 
of it all?" 

But the little seven-dollar-a-week girl sitting on her high 
platform over a counter adding figures, wiggled her small 
stubby toed shoes and smiled happily: 

"I'm ahead o' the game this week," she was thinking. 
I'm gonna win out with a dollar over. I'll buy some near 
silk and copy that waist that I saw'n the French department. 
I bet Jack'll like it." She thought for a moment, the elusive 
little dimple flickering in her thin cheek, then she smiled and 
her smile was like the flash of the sunlight at dawn. "I'm 
ahead o' the game," she hummed to herself. 

« 4: 4t ^ * * 

Don't think that I'm talking, girls, making things up 
out of my imagination. For it's the one who gets everything 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 163 

that is discontented. The workers never find time to search 
for the word "bored" in Mr. Webster's dictionary. 

I went to a dinner party one evening — a party at the 
home of a rich girl that I know. I met there many charm- 
ing people, people with carefully modulated voices and care- 
fully marcelled hair. We talked of interesting subjects — 
interesting enough — and we noticed each other politely and 
covertly. I saw girls gowned in model frocks from the most 
expensive stores — and they saw me in a dress that had 
seemed very pretty at home. Somehow I could not really 
enjoy the dinner. 

A few days later I went to a luncheon party in a tiny 
house on an unpretentious street. My hostess did her own 
work and she laughed happily and naturally as she changed 
the plates. The girls were dressed simply, prettily, in street 
suits and tailored blouses. Although I had made my own 
hat I did not feel uncomfortably out of place, as I had felt 
at the other party. I was conscious that it looked as well 
as any other hat. When we talked, we talked of intimate 
subjects, about Helen's new furs, and the baby cousin's first 
tooth. We praised the simple dishes and we commented upon 
the way our friends did their hair. Above all we enjoyed 
ourselves. 

When I came home from the fashionable party they asked 
me: 

"Did you have a good time?" 

"Oh, y-e-s," I drawled in unenthusiastic answer. But 
when they asked me the same question after the luncheon I 
never hesitated. 

"I certainly did !" I answered. 

I know a girl, an amusing, clever little girl who earns 
her living by writing stories or sketching funny little things, 
or making appealing little songs. She should be rich, but 
she is very nearly poor. 

"My income is an uncertain thing," she told me once. 
"But you know that I wouldn't have it different if I could. 
What fun would I get out of a new dress if I could just 



164 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

walk to a store and buy it? Would I like grapefruit so 
well if I had it every morning for breakfast? Would a trol- 
ley car be a luxury if I had a limousine waiting for my 
orders ? It's the lack of a dollar and twenty cents that makes 
the dress worth having. It's the "once every two months' 
feeling" that makes grapefruit taste so mighty good. It's the 
blister from worn shoes that makes you appreciate the ride 
that you pay five cents for. I'd hate to be rich." 

The girl is an optimist — a happy, look-on-the-bright-side- 
of -things optimist. And, although I would like to have a 
large bank account and perfect freedom from money mat- 
ters, I agree that the dress it takes two months to buy is 
more of a satisfaction than the gown that grows up like a 
mushroom at the wave of the magic wand called money. 

Did we ever hear the story of the child who wanted the 
moon? Shall I tell you? 

Once upon a time there was a tiny boy — a prince. His 
rooms were a treasure store of toys, rocking horses of silver, 
and gold soldiers; games and dolls and puzzles; jewels for 
marbles, and tiny singing birds for music. And as time 
went by he was very happy 

But one night the happiness bubble broke, for the prince, 
who was rocked to sleep in the late afternoon, awoke and 
saw a silver moonbeam glimmering on his jewel studded 
wall. Quickly the prince jumped to the floor and ran to 
the window. It was there that he saw for the first time the 
ball of monstrous size hung in the sky. And because it was 
far away and beautiful he set up a princely wail. 

His father and his mother came rushing in with several 
courtiers. "What do you want, Prince?" they asked him. 
"That," said the prince, pointing a chubby finger at the moon. 

"Take this instead," said the king, offering a monster 
ruby. But the prince screamed, "No ! I want the new one." 

"My darling," said the queen, as she clasped her son's 
hand, "that we are not able to get for you." 

The prince had never been denied before. In open- 
mouthed wonder he stared at his court, then — 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 165 

"Is it so beautiful because I cannot have it?" asked the 
prince. 

That is the way of the world, friends of mine, and you 
will notice it more and more as you grow older. For the 
things that you want, and the things that you appreciate, 
and the things that are worth th» having are the ones that are 
hard to get. 



166 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



GOD'S CHILDREN 



I SAW a smiling little child, with glances shy and sweet, 
as I was walking down along the crowded city street. 

Her tiny fingers nestled in her father's loving hand, 
and in her other arm she held a doll. I wished to stand and 
watch her till she disappeared across the busy way. It is not 
often that I see a sight so young, so gay, in this great town 
of grief and toil, where tear and laughter meet — where sor- 
row touches happiness upon the busy street. 

I thought of her throughout the day and often saw her 
smile, and in the hurry and the rush I wished that, far a 
while, I too might be a little child, with mind quite free 
from care, but as I thought my day dreams burst into the 
empty air. 

The world seemed full of war that day. The papers 
screamed of strife, and everywhere the headlines told that 
Death had conquered Life. "Six hundred thousand killed," 
they said, "in one deciding fight" — a cry to arms, a hail of 
shot, a fire in the night, and cities were in flames and homes 
were ruined by the score. Ah ! people do not understand 
the ravages of war! So, from the thought of happy smiles 
and shining baby eyes my mind swung to the thoughts of 
blood and snarling battle cries, and from the thoughts of 
childish play, of dolls and other toys, my aching heart was 
filled with grief for dying, gasping boys, and men away from 
home — alone on some sad battlefield, drowned in the rain 
of bursting shells, without a thing to shield them from the 
specter dark and grim, that urged along the fight — the phan- 
tom grey that chuckled as the flames grew huge and bright. 

The world seemed full of war, but oh ! the papers only 
spoke about the bloodshed at the front, about the powder 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 167 

smoke; about the guns that rumbled in the distance, and 
the pain that soldiers suffered who would never see the day 
again. I thought of them — the dying men — and pitied them 
and prayed, and asked that God might help them for the 
courage they displayed. I never thought about the ones who 
waited home in tears — who had no way of feeling that their 
doubts and awful fears were groundless, who quite far away 
could hear the cannon speak, who in their minds saw loved 
ones die — saw life blood slowly leak from some kind heart 
that never more would sing at honest toil — the pawn of 
kings — a unit in the war god's mighty spoil. 

I thought of them until a picture small was brought to 
me, the picture of a little girl — a Belgian refugee. Her 
face was smiling, and her arms were clasping to her heart 
a broken baby doll, and as I looked a sudden dart of pain 
shot through my soul, and where I had just seen her face 
I saw a rainbow (made of tears) that covered up the place. 
For she is only one of them, of millions that are left with- 
out a home, without a bit of anything — bereft of fathers, 
brothers, uncles, that they loved ; they are too young to know 
that they arQ mounted on life's ladder, that the rung their 
tiny feet are standing on is small and prone to shake, that 
in the stress of war the foothold weak is sure to break and 
leave them helpless, lying in the waste of wreckage small — 
the boards that built a cottage home, a tiny garden wall, a 
little pile of torn-up plants, a heap of ashes grey, a bone 
or two, a crust of bread. Ah ! wreckage, did I say ? And 
though the baby smiles are bright and baby cheeks are round, 
it will not be for long, for on the cold and friendless ground 
they will be left alone to die, to cry with childish grief while 
famine steals beside them like some sulky, prowling thief. 
And at the father's knee their prayers will never more be 
said ; for, shattered by a shell, the father may be lying dead ! 
And mother's arms will not be soft to hold her baby fast, 
for she will sit, a huddled heap, with wild eyes, staring past 
the wasted harvest, lying for a farmer's hand to reap, past 
all the death and sorrow to that land of endless sleep. 



168 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

A little girl, a broken doll, eyes yet unfilled with pain; 
oh, can it be that killing these will be accounted gain? A 
heart with purity and light and lips o'errun with song, and 
feet that dance and frolic as they carry her along. It cannot 
be that such as these can be condemned to die ! Not while 
the Christian folk can hear their plea for help, their cry ! 
It is enough that men should go to still the hungry wail 
of Death, that they should heroes be, but why should women 
fail to have the comforts that they need, and why should 
children small be robbed of warmth, and food, and clothes, 
and shelter, and their all? And why should kings and em- 
perors have wine and food to eat, while on a tiny crust a 
day a whole small family cheat the cries of famine and of 
dread that follow them around for lack of living, breathing 
men to till the fertile ground? 

friends, we do not understand, for seas are rolled be- 
tween us and the sufferers, and God has kept our country 
clean. We do not realize as we sit by tables crowded high 
with steaming food, that other folk will waste away and die 
for want of it ; we do not know that babies shake with chill — 
our own are warm and happy and we have no thought of ill. 
We cannot understand the work of armies, drenched in blood, 
that struggle through the country lanes, the brooklets deep 
with mud. We cannot picture in our minds the peasant 
woman, thin, and begging for a crust to eat, where crops 
have always been. We cannot seem to understand why they 
are cursed with fear, while we have food within our hands — 
our loved ones standing near. 

The little smiling girl I saw upon our city street — I wish 
that every other child could be as calm and sweet as she was 
while she walked along and held her father's hand. And 
yet, as I am wishing hard I seem to understand that God 
the Father up on high will walk beside the ones made orphan 
by cruel war's alarms, its terrors, and its guns. And I 
am sure, within my mind, that if we help and pray, the 
dawn of peace may come to them not many months away. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 169 



THE GARDEN SPOT 



THE Country Girl who lived in the city looked out 
of the window a bit unhappily, a bit wistfully. 
Her eyes saw tall buildings and cobble stones and 
concrete pavements; a tiny speck of brown dirt and a 
tiny glimpse of grey sky; but the soul of her looking 
far out over trivial things like skyscrapers and avenues 
and cities saw the country home that nestled birdlike 
on the side of a tall, grassy hill. She thought of the 
buzzing wind that whispered through just-beginning-to-sprout 
leaf buds and she thought of the springy garden ground that 
was being tilled for grain, the fertile beds that were being 
made into jewel boxes for geranium rubies, and fern emeralds, 
and violet amethysts. She sighed as she thought of the 
mother who could make anything from a dry stick to a with- 
ered leaf grow; of the father who looked like a silver-haired 
immortal as he went into the fields with a plow. 

It is a sad thing to have to work in the city when there 
is a beautiful home in the country waiting for your tiny 
snatched-from-work visits. It is a terrible thing to love 
flowers and to see them only in shop windows when you know 
that not very many miles away there are dozens of them — 
hundreds of them — that wait to be picked. No wonder the 
Country Girl sighed and refused to see the dullness of the 
city landscape. 

"If only," she sighed, "people would know just how much 
folk needed flowers and plants, I am sure that there would 
be a garden on every street corner in every city. Sometimes 
it seems as if I'm so hungry for the sweetness of them that 
it hurts." 

It was not a cold day even though it was grey and gloomy. 



170 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The Country Girl who lived in the city threw up the window 
and looked out into the crowded friendlessness of the city 
streets. The damp breeze that fluttered softly against her 
cheek was a breeze from the south land that somehow carried 
with it a message from her home. As she leaned on the sill 
she wondered just what flowers were being planted under the 
bay window — just what bushes were being set out along the 
stone wall. 

Something tapped her on the face softly, but somehow 
very insistently. With a hand that was not very gentle she 
brushed it away and it fell with a small thud on the window 
seat, where she sat. A little curiously she looked down to 
see whether it was a bug, a stick, or a bit of plaster. 

It was none of them. For there staring at her brazenly 
from her best green cushion lay a seed with small wing-like 
leaves on each side of it — a hard, brown little country seed. 
The girl looked at it, puzzled for the moment. As far as 
she knew there was not a tree or a plant or a sprig of green 
for miles around — at least she had not seen them. And yet 
it was unmistakably a seed from some bush or tree that had 
come softly in at her window, like a messenger — from home. 
With an eager little cry she caught it up in her hand and 
pressed it lovingly against her face until the hard brown 
little leaf wings cut into her cheek. 

"You darling," she whispered, "to find me here. You 
darling. . . . I'll plant you V 

Dirt — the kind of dirt to plant flowers in — is rather hard 
to find in a rented city room. But the Country Girl had 
heard somewhere that some seeds would grow in water. With 
her little brown messenger clasped tight in her hand she 
found an old blue dish and filled it from a tiny pitcher. Then 
she dropped the seed into it, and placed it in the sunniest 
spot on the window ledge. 

This is almost the end. The Country Girl who lived in 
the city forgot about the seed. But while she was busy for- 
getting the seed was busy — ^growing. And then one day as 
she leaned out of the window wishing for the home and the 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS lYl 

mother and the flowers she saw a sprig of green against the 
dullness of the city landscape, for the seed, in a little way 
that seeds have, had taken root and sprouted out, and blos- 
somed with tiny leaves and buds. 

Oh! people everywhere who love flowers, if you have a 
spot of ground that is your own to grow flowers on, remem- 
ber the folk who are longing for God's growing things and 
plant a garden of your own. And you, girls — and boys — 
who live in the city but long for the country, if you have 
a bit of a dish and a few spoonfuls of dirt, or if you only 
have a tiny cup of water for your garden plot, plant some- 
thing, if it is only a bird seed or a little unknown messenger 
that drifts in on the breeze, and watch it grow. That will 
take you near to the country, God's country. 



172 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



CHILDREN'S DAY 



The Child: 

I wonder who can tell me 

What makes up Children's Day? 
I want to know the answer, 

Perhaps the only way 
Would be to call from Heaven, 

The gentle winds that blow. . . . 
First I will ask the South Wind, 

For she will surely know. 

The South Wind: 

I come from the land of the glorious sun, 

Where breezes are gentle and sweet, 
Where skies are like turquoise and clouds are like pearl, 

Where waves kiss the sand at my feet. 
I come from a land where the sunbeams are gold. 

Where bright colored birds dart and play; 
And so I can tell you (because I am sure), 

That sunshine makes glad Children's Day. 

The Child: 

Oh East Wind, can you tell me what makes the day so fair. 
Why joy is on the faces, and songs are in the air? 

The East Wind : 

I come from a land that is filled with a dream. 

Where lilacs and roses are fair; 
Where daisies are blooming and violets of blue. 

Send perfume aloft in the air. 
I come from a land where the cherry trees bloom, 

A vision of radiant white. 
And 80 I can tell you (because I am sure), 

That flowers make Children's Day bright. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 173 

The Child: 

Oh West Wind, merry West Wind, come blowing o'er the sea. 
And see if you can answer my wonderings for me. 

The West Wind : 
I come from a land that is filled to the brim 

With laughter and frolic and song, 
And rosy-cheeked children I see everywhere, 

All talking and dancing along. 
The blue of the heaven shines bright from their eyes. 

The gold of the sun in their hair; 
And so I am sure that the gay Children's Day, 

Is made for their joy everywhere ! 

The Child: 
Oh, North Wind from the regions of gleaming ice and snow. 
Perhaps you found my answer where frozen rivers flow? 

The North Wind: 

I come from the land that is freezing and white, 

A land made of sea and of sky; 
And nothing is seen that is warm to the heart. 

Or homelike and bright to the eye. 
And yet, all alone Math the sleet and the snow, 

I gather a message of calm; 
For God is the Reason for all days on earth, ': 

The Father who keeps us from harm. 

The Child: 

Ah, I have found the secret, 

And each wind had its part 
In giving me a message; 

For every Christian heart 
Must know that little children, 

And flowers sweet that sway, 
And God and golden sunshine. 

Make up our Children's Day ! 



174 BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



A GREETING 



When someone's starting something new. 

You grip him by the hand 
And say: "You have my best, Old Boy! 

And all your pals will stand 
Beside you when the way gets rough, 

To help you safely through." 
And that, my friend, is what I ask. 

And hope that you will do ! 

When someone's starting something new. 

You don't turn up your nose; 
And stand aside until you see. 

How very well it goes. 
You smile, perhaps, to give him heart. 

Your laugh rings clear and true; 
And that, my friend, deep in my heart, 

Is what I think you'll do! 

When someone's starting something new, 
You don't make fun or sneer. 

Or say the biting, clever things. 
That he is sure to hear. 

You speak a little word — to help. 
When he is feeling blue, 

Or pat a fellow in the back. 

That's what I know you'll do! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 175 



YOUR SOUL 



I am alone dear. . . 

And yet in the stillness, 

I hear the sound of your hurrying feet; 
And though I know that the miles roll between us, 

All of my pulses have quickened their beat. 
Dear, are you lonely? The bright stars of Heaven 

Echo my prayer, full of love, in their shine. 
Ah ! but the miles cannot mean much, my darling, 

When through the stillness your soul comes to mine! 

I am alone dear. . . 

And yet in the darkness 

I feel the touch of your lips on my hands. 
But as I whisper your name I am knowing 

It is a shadow and not you that stands 
Here close beside me. The winds of the nighttime 

Speak, as they wail, with my sorrowful heart. 
Ah! dear, I love you — and, dear, you must know it 

When all the miles cannot keep us apart. 



176 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



WHERE JESUS WALKED 



Slowly the warming sunbeams fall 

Across the quiet way, 
The far off beat of passing feet 

Fills all the fading day. 
A thrill of war is in the air, 

And far away a gun 
Speaks shrilly through the evening calm, 

And lo! some life is done. 

And yet, where blood and smoke and flames 

Curl up to meet the sky, 
The Saviour walked long years ago — 

Where armies fight and cry, 
He told men how to live their lives. 

And how in time, to die. 

Perhaps, beneath some crumbled arch, 

He laid his gentle hand 
On one whose life was torn with strife, 

And said, "I understand!" 
Perhaps, where streets are seamed with shot, 

And noises born of Hell 
Shriek from afar, the shattered stones 

The Saviour's love could tell. 

AVhere dying men gasp out their lives, 
Where rumpled banners sway — 

Where blood lies on the dusty road. 
Where hate is fierce today — 

Perhaps some flower, blooming, shows 
Where Jesus knelt to pray. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 177 



MY CASTLE IN SPAIN 



I once had a castle in Spain, dear, 
I dreamed of a country of gold. 

Where gifts could be had for the asking. 
Where people could never grow old. 

I dreamed of a garden of flowers, 
Where roses and lily buds grew; 

The coin of my realm was the sunshine. 
My diamonds were moulded of dew. 

I dreamed of a castle in Spain, dear. 

But I was a boy, and untried, 
I fought with the world for a living, 

And all my imaginings died. 

And then when my visions had faded, 
I met you — your eyes were aflame. 

Your lips were my garden of roses. 
The lily buds murmured your name ! 

I once had a castle in Spain, dear, 

With skies that were gleaming above; 

But now it is gone, and my sunshine 
Is bright with the gold of your love. 

I watch as your hands weave enchantments, 
The music grows thrilling and sweet; 

Ah ! all of my castle in Spain, dear. 

Lies here, with my heart, at your feet! 



12 



178 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



A LULLABY 



Go ter sleep — shut yer eyes, 
Air am full o' lullabies. 
Winds is singin' as they blow. 
Bees is croonin' as they go, 
Birds is callin' to an' fro — 

Shut yer eyes — go ter sleep — 
Close yer mammy watch will keep, 
Till each little silver star 
Guards th' cradle where you are, 
Shinin' from th' sky afar. 

Go ter sleep — shut yer eyes, 
While th' night time swiftly flies; 
Every hour goes so fast. 
That th' dark'll soon be past. 
And th' momin' come at last. 

Shut yer eyes — go ter sleep. 
Here th' sand man softly creep 
Down from out th' purple skies. 
Stilling lil' children's cries — 

^ •!• 'P "I* 

Air am full o' lullabies. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 179 



A MINCE PIE THANKSGIVING 



I WAS talking to a small boy not long ago (a small boy 
who was large enough to read remarkable novels, and 
play rather good baseball, and discuss war news). 

"What," I asked him casually, "is Thanksgiving Day?" 

"Aw, don't you know ?" he questioned, round eyes on my 
face, "Why, Thanksgiving^s a day when th' fambly comes 
to th' house and tells you how much you've grown. Thanks- 
giving's a day when you eat, and eat, and eat ! Thanksgiving's 
a day o' turkey and mince pie." 

Years ago, when this land was very young indeed a few 
settlers — half starved, half discouraged, almost half dead, 
gathered together and prayed. As a result of the prayers 
that they offered harvests were rich, and trees bore their first 
fruits, and flowers bloomed peacefully on lonely graves. Then, 
to show God that they loved Him for His goodness and 
mercy, the settlers put aside a day and made a great feast 
and invited friends and erstwhile foes to come and share 
their plenty with them. The day was called Thanksgiving. 

Perhaps, after awhile when good harvests had come to 
be commonplace, the men who originated the day forgot the 
lean years that stretched grimly in the past, and the arrows 
of the hostile redskins, and the loved ones who had given 
their very lives to start a new colony. Perhaps, when com- 
fortable homes began to spring up in place of the rough 
log huts, and when the savages — no longer masters of their 
land, crept sullenly into the wilderness, they forgot the 
Hand that had guided them to a comfortable haven. Per- 
haps, in the excitement of building a new government they 
forgot (just a bit) in Whose Name they were working. At 
any rate, now that centuries have hurried by, nine out of 



180 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

every ten people — when asked to tell in one word what 
Thanksgiving means to them will say, "a holiday," or "tur- 
key," or even "mince pie." On the first Thanksgiving I 
rather think that they would have said "prayer" or "love." 

One Thanksgiving not long ago I spent the day in a 
well-to-do home. The hostess was giving a dinner party and 
as she fluttered about, between the kitchen and the dining 
room, I heard many snatches of conversation. 

"The turkey won't be done," she murmured distractedly. 
"Oh, dear! And the pie isn't brown enough — Aunt Sallie's 
so critical she's sure to tell some one that we don't have 
good pie. This butter plate has a nick in it — oh, I wish 
I had a new set of dishes, these look so, so worn ! Harry,' 
this to her young and interested son who stood expectantly 
sniffing the air, "take those smudgy fingers off the tablecloth ! 
Do you s'pose I want streaks all over it when we have so 
much company? Oh, dear!" her voice rose in a wail that 
would have been funny if she had not taken herself so seri- 
ously, "Oh, dear, I'll be glad when this day is over — it's a 
perfect bug-bear to me every year. We always have so many 
fussy people here watching me, and I do make mistakes ! I 
hate Thanksgiving!" 

And yet the Pilgrim fathers made the day so that there 
might be a time each year when friends could meet together, 
and give thanks and pray. 

Another year I spent the day (rather, a part of the day) 
in a very different manner. I walked down through the 
slums of New York, past the furtively awake Chinatown, 
along crowded Mulberry and Eivington streets. I saw shiv- 
ering, half-dressed children with big eyes and blue, pinched 
cheeks; I saw feeble old women in ragged shawls, and shifty 
eyed men with soleless shoes and frayed coat sleeves; I saw 
wailing babies who protested against the discomfort of numb 
fingers and stiff little bodies — a discomfort that they could 
in no way understand. And then, because I felt that I had 
missed the spirit of the day I stepped inside the half opened 
door of a mission house. 



FEAL PEOPLE — AND DEEAMS 181 

I expected to find a breath of peace — an atmosphere of 
calm, perhaps, in the mission house, but as I walked softly- 
down the narrow hall I was somehow made conscious of a 
vague excitement — an almost imperceptible stir that filled 
the very air. When I reached the one large assembly room 
I met a current of humanity, that, in its eagerness, almost 
swept me off my feet. Long lines of women jostled each 
other for first place while their nervous, hungry fingers 
clutched tickets, or fumbled with their threadbare shawls. 
Some of the women led wondering-eyed children by the hand. 

At the end of the room stood a table and toward this 
all eyes seemed to be focused. As I glanced in that direc- 
tion I saw that it was covered with baskets — well filled bas- 
kets. They held packages — probably of tea and flour, po- 
tatoes and meat and bread. 

As I stood in the doorway, fascinated by the strange 
company a name was called by the kind faced superintendent 
and an aged woman walked up to the table. Her steps were 
slow and feeble; she clutched at chairs as she went along. 
I leaned forward, breathlessly, as she received her basket. 

Somehow, perhaps it was my imagination, the room 
seemed to grow quiet, and in the stillness I watched two 
shaking hands grasp the heavy basket, I saw two dull eyes 
peer into the depths of it, and then suddenly I saw an old 
face begin to work painfully under a crown of grey hair. 

"Thank God !" said the woman in a voice that was scarcely 
above a whisper but was still unbelievably penetrating and 
distinct above the murmur of the throng. 

And I ... I turned and went out into the street, 
for my eyes were heavy with unshed tears. But as I walked 
down the cold, dreary way I felt the glow of the huge log 
fires ; and saw the glint of light that touched warmly on the 
sombre pilgrim dress and the copper skins of the savages and 
the golden hair of gentle maidens. I smelt the fragrance of 
cooking dinners and my soul chanted a glorious Te Deura 
that had echoed down to me from hundreds of years. For 
the first time in my life, I think, I realized how the Pilgrims 



182 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

must have felt on that feast day that they set apart from 
other days and called Thanksgiving. 

It isn't hard, if you stop and really think, to remember 
a number of things to be thankful for. If you have to toil 
hard at the work of earning a living be glad that you are 
able to work — that you have the health and strength. If 
you grow tired of the quiet monotony of your home be glad 
that you have a home to grow tired of (many people haven't) . 
If your dearest friend has deserted you or your most cher- 
ished illusion has fallen away from your life, be glad that 
the world is full of friends for the making and there are 
always dreams that may come true. Be glad that you are 
yourself and not the old woman who sells newspapers on the 
windy street corner who has only a dark past to look back 
on and a darker future stretching ahead. 

I received a letter a few days ago from a little stranger 
girl who lives in the west. I am going to quote a part of it : 

"I am a cripple," she told me, "and I live on a ranch 
far away from any town. The postman hardly ever stops 
at our house (so far away from civilization the postman's 
visit is an event). As for our nearest neighbors — well, we 
simply haven't got any near neighbors. . . . As I sit 
by my window I can follow the heavy line of wind tossed 
grass with my eyes. Far off I see it, still wind tossed, touch- 
ing the sky. 

"Do you wonder if I am lonely? Well, I am — at times, 
but underneath it all I'm glad that I'm alive (even though 
I can't walk) and that there's a beautiful earth, and a beau- 
tiful Heaven — to come." 

That's the secret of the right Thanksgiving spirit, I think. 
We can all be glad, everyone of us, that we are alive and 
that there's a beautiful earth and a beautiful Heaven to come. 
It was for that reason that the Pilgrims set aside a day of 
prayer and love. Perhaps if we try — just a bit — to remem- 
ber, the day may lose its turkey and mince pie significance 
and come back into its own. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 183 



COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS 



"^^OUNT your blessings," said the landlord complacently 

\^ as he folded his plump, well-manicured hands over his 

immaculate white waistcoat. "Count your blessings, 

Mrs. Grady." He smiled placidly into the fire that crackled 

on the hearth. 

The widow Grady twitched her thin work-reddened hands 
on the faded black skirt of her dress. "Shure," she told him, 
wearily, "it's precious few blessings I have, Misther 
Cockrane !" 

The landlord looked at the tear-stained, crumpled, nerv- 
ous little woman before him "You have something on your 
mind, Mrs. Grady?" he asked, not unkindly. "Suppose — " 
he paused waiting. 

The widow Grady's thin hand crept up toward her throat. 
"It's — it's — " she hesitated. "It's — me husband always paid 
ye the rent on time, didn't he, Misther Cockrane?" 

The landlord stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Yes," 
he told her, "your husband always paid on time." 

"God rest his soul," murmured the widow piteously. A 
tear hung on her faded lashes. "It's about that — the rent — 
that I came" — then with a rush — "I haven't the money for 
this month, nor the others — for the work is scarce in these 
times, and the children — have to eat." Her voice sank to 
a whisper. , 

The landlord looked away from the fire. 

"Mrs. Grady," he told her, "I've never been called a hard 
man, but don't you see I can't help?" 

The widow Grady clasped her hands tightly in her lap. 

"It's such a small house," she pleaded — "such a small 
house, an' it's in the back of yer yard where nobody else 



184 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

could use it, and I'll pay you when I get the money." She 
paused, fighting back the sobs that rose in her throat. 

"That's what you said last month," the landlord told her. 
His face was gloomy, heavy-looking, "and the month before. 
No, Mrs. Grady, I can't help. It's my business, and it's a 
matter of principle. I have other tenants who are waiting 
for an excuse to fall behind in their payments and you'd be 
the excuse. No, Mrs. Grady, I can't help !" His tone was 
final. 

The widow Grady rose stiffly to her feet — one thin hand 
brushed her eyes. "Then it's away I must go?" she asked 
tearfully. "An' the three children, so little, an' tomorrow 
Thanksgiving?" She waited in the doorway. The landlord 
was staring into the fire. He did not seem to hear the 
pleading voice. 

Softly, with one hand pressed against her dry throat, 
the widow Grady closed the door after her. Like some 
wounded forest animal she crept down the long, thickly car- 
peted hall and through the kitchen that was filled with the 
unmistakable signs of Thanksgiving. A row of pies stood 
on a table, a huge pumpkin, a turkey ready to be stuffed. 

"Some people have everything," murmured the widow 
Grady. She choked down a sob and walked quickly out of 
the back door. 

Somewhere from the window of an upper room came the 
muffled cry of a baby. The widow quickened her pace. "It's 
them that can have children," she thought bitterly — "they 
that has money and can do for 'em. Mine — " her thoughts 
swept ahead to tiny Timmy and Kathleen — to the baby. 
"Mine ain't got anything." 

The little garden path was narrow and short, but it 
seemed to the widow Grady a long time before the cottage, 
with its grey, unpainted sides, peered out at her furtively 
from behind the trees. Standing at the window were Timmy 
and Kathleen, their small faces eager, their small noses flat- 
tened button-like against the pane. Two grimy little hands 
waved a welcome to her. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 185 

The widow Grady opened the door slowly, and as she 
stepped into the bare, neat room the two small figures threw 
themselves into her arms. Over on a bed in the corner her 
baby crowed happily and waved a white-stockinged leg at her. 

'^Mummy,'^ it was Kathleen, the oldest, who spoke, tugging 
on her hand. "Mummy — you have been gone a long, long 
time !" She nestled close to the rigid figure in rusty black. 

Outside the shadows were drooping heavily over the land- 
lord's garden. The widow Grady wrenched herself from the 
clinging fingers. 

"It's not long I've been gone," she told them harshly. 
"There, don't bother me ! I want to get you some supper." 

The children drew back, hurt. Tiny Timmy vainly tried 
to keep his lip from quivering and a tear hung on Kathleen's 
lashes. The baby on the bed, too young to feel the trouble, 
gurgled softly. 

The widow Grady cut two thick slices of stale bread. She 
slapped them on two saucers and poured a thin, gold-brown 
stream of molasses over them. 

'^ou can eat," she told them sharply. 

"But, mummy," little Kathleen crept to the table — "but, 
mummy — your dinner?" 

The widow Grady laughed. Her laugh was not pleasant. 
"I ain't hungry," she said shortly. She crossed over to the 
bureau and begain pulling the clean, patched garments out 
of the drawers. 

"What" — little Timmy, his mouth full of bread and mo- 
lasses, looked at her with large owl eyes — '^hat you doin', 
mummy ?" 

"I'm packin'," answered the woman. Again the sobs rose 
to her throat. 

Silence — a heavy, thick silence — hung over the little 
room. The children, too young to know the cause, realized 
that the situation was strained. The little boy looked at his 
small, older sister pleadingly. She came to the rescue. 

"Mummy," she questioned, "have you forgot what day's 
tomorrow ? It's Thanksgivin' ! Ain't you glad ?" 



186 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

The widow Grady laid down a roll of black stockings. 

"There ain't any such day," she choked fiercely. "An' 
don't you speak to me again — hear?'^ 

Tiny Timmy broke into a wail of grief and little Kathleen 
sniffed hard. Over on the bed the baby began to whimper, 
The widow Grady kept on packing. 

The children went to bed early. Kathleen was clever at 
unbuttoning tiny clothes. They looked askance at the 
mother who sat, a huddled figure with her back turned, 
across the room. Wasn't she going to hear their prayers? 
Wasn't she going to kiss them good night ? Wasn't she going 
to sing, "Sleep, Baby, Sleep ?" As the darkness settled down, 
velvet-like, they dozed off, still wondering. 

The widow Grady sat in the tiny rocking-chair, a sad 
figure with tightly shut lips and bright eyes that looked 
intently into the future. She did not move, only her hands 
twitched nervously. She saw herself and her children stand- 
ing in the road shelterless; she saw herself asking for work 
— and not getting it — because of the two small figures that 
held her skirts, the soft bundle in her arms. "Ko one," she 
thought, "wants a married woman with three children. No 
one wants a baby in the house — unless it's their own. There's 
no place for us — no place." A little thought tugged at her 
brain, a persistent little thought. 

"If it wasn't for the children," she told herself, "I could 
get work — lots of it — if it wasn't for the children." 

Over on the bed little Kathleen cried out sharply in her 
sleep. The widow Grady hardened her heart. "There are 
places," the little thought whispered slyly in the woman's 
ear, "there are orphan asylums where they take children — 
whole families. Of course you wouldn't ever see them again 
—but—" 

Kathleen cried out again. She was having a bad dream, 
and the widow Grady suddenly sobbed: 

"I've got to do it," she cried. "They won't miss me and 
I'll get work. It's that I need." Her bent shoulders shook 
convulsively. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 187 



It was late and the room was dark. The widow Grady 
rose stiffly to her feet. "I'll get work," she said. 

There was a light step on her tiny porch, and the door 
was flung in. The widow Grady saw a little woman standing 
in the doorway with hands stretched out beseechingly. A 
little woman with wavy yellow hair, falling over her quilted 
silk wrapper, and wide terror-filled blue eyes. The widow 
Grady had seen her many times — she was the landlord's young 
wife. 

"What is it?" she questioned harshly. 

The little woman swayed in the doorway. 

"I was alone," she sobbed brokenly, "and my baby was 
taken sick — he's choking to death ! The telephone's broken 
and I couldn't get the doctor. I was all alone — I came for 
you — ^my husband is away." 

"It's lucky ye found me in," said the widow Grady sav- 
agely. "I'm movin'." But the little woman never heard. 

"Come with me!" she begged. "Help me — he's alone, 
dying !" 

The widow Grady stood still. "Your husband," she said, 
"wouldn't help me. And my children have to eat !" 

"My baby !" moaned the little woman. 

Over on the bed small Kathleen moaned again — and the 
widow Grady turned to the landlord's wife. Her face was 
cold and grey. 

"I'll come," she said. They went out together. 

The big house was reached quickly. Like one in a night- 
mare the widow Grady followed the frantic mother up the 
wide stairs to the large nursery. On the gilt crib lay a tiny 
boy with a blue face. The widow Grady gave him one look. 

"Croup," she announced brusquely ; "get hot water !" She 
had brought up three children — "and paregoric," she added. 

The widow Grady was left alone in the nursery. Gently 
she picked up the little, coughing figure and held it tightly 
against her breast. 

*'Mine have all had it," she thought. 

The baby opened eyes, widely blue and terror-filled, like 



188 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

his mother's. A mist came before the woman's sight as she 
looked. 

"Shure, he has eyes like the baby," she murmured. 

All night long they worked side by side — the poor widow 
and the landlord's wife. The baby was bathed in hot water 
and wrapped in blankets — given paregoric and ipecac in large 
doses. And still he choked on. 

"It's the phlegm in his throat," said one woman to the 
other one — "unless we can get it up — " 

"I wish my husband was here," sobbed the other woman. 
"Dear God," her voice broke in prayer. 

It was then that the change came. The baby coughed 
a little harder and his face grew slightly pink. 

"Put hot water on his throat," said the widow Grady to 
the praying mother. "It'll help him get his breath." And 
then a few minutes later : 

"He'll get better now," she said. 

The landlord's wife broke down. 

"You're too good," she sobbed, "too good. You've saved 
my baby." 

The widow Grady held up a warning finger. 

"Hush," she said, "Dearie. He's restin'." Quietly she 
laid the limp little figure that was growing warm and pliant 
on the bed. The thin ghost of a smile played on the baby's 
face. 

"He smiles like Kathleen," she said. 

It was in the grey Thanksgiving dawn that the widow 
Grady walked home through the narrow little path. Behind 
her, in the big house, a mother and tiny baby lay sleeping — 
in front of her the cottage looked out, a dark blot from the 
misty greyness. It was an eager hand that opened the door, 
eager feet that carried her across to the bed. She fell on 
her knees beside the heavily sleeping children — Tiny Timmy, 
the baby, Kathleen. Her hand crept caressingly over their 
tumbled, curly little heads. 

"My darlin's, my darlin's," she sobbed, "an' mother came 
near lettin' you go—" she caught her breath sharply. "What 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 189 

if work is hard to get?" she demanded of the dawning day. 
"What if people don't want women with children?" Her 
voice arose defiantly. "What do I care," she cried, "my dar- 
lin's ? We'll fight it out— together." 

An hour later the landlord walked in with a huge basket 
— a basket bulging with turkey, and pies, and vegetables, and 
plum pudding. He found her kneeling there — her arms 
flung over the bed. On her face was a happy look — a listen- 
ing look. 

"Mrs. Grady," he told her huskily, "you've made me a 
very thankful man, and you've made me very much ashamed. 
I can't pay you ever ! But," he hesitated, "I've brought din- 
ner for you and the children — and you can have the house — 
always." 

The widow Grady turned her head. The morning sun- 
light fell over her face and wove itself into her hair. She 
had not heard him, but a radiant smile smoothed the lines 
of care from her face. 

"It's countin' my blessings I am," she said softly. 



190 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



TURKEYS IN THE 
SUMMERTIME 



Turkeys in the summertime, with azure sky above them, 
Bronze and blue and scarlet too, upon the velvet plain ; 

All the joy of living when the world is at its sweetest, 

Kissed with golden sunshine and with fragrant silver rain. 

Turkeys in the summertime, with gentle breezes blowing, 
Silence deep like restful sleep, and shadows on the grass; 

Waves of peace that settle down upon the trampled pasture. 
Birds that swiftly flutter by and murmur as they pass. 

Turkeys in the summertime, a mass of vivid color. 

Throaty cries and beady eyes — they do not guess their fate ; 
Turkeys in the summertime, a living glowing picture. 

But turkeys in the wintertime upon a steaming plate ! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 191 



THANKSGIVING 



Blue skies and true skies with autumn's haze below them ; 

Haystacks steep and yellow in the sunlight's golden glow ; 
Pumpkins lying wreathed in vines that creep away to show 
them; 

Crimson leaves upon the bough and apples down below. 

Light air and bright air with joy and laughter ringing; 

Pipes of Pan and gipsy calls that tingle on the breeze ; 
Brooks that dance above the stones — a million anthems sing- 
ing; 

Flocks of birds that flutter South among the highest trees. 

Small prayers and all prayers that fly to God, the Master; 

Harvest-time within our souls and peace within our land ; 
Eyes filled with happy tears and hearts that beat the faster; 

Benedictions from the Lord and bounty from his hand. 



192 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



OH! EAST IS EAST- 



When the sun is slowly setting, 

Off beyond the farthest hill; 
When the shadows soft are creeping. 

And the breeze itself is still — 
Then I'll breath a little message, 

Half a hope — and half a prayer; 
Trusting it will wander westward. 

With the sun — and find you there ! 

When the sun is rising brightly. 

To the East of where you stand- 
When its glory shines untrammeled. 

Over all the smiling land. 
Pause a minute, dear, and gazing 

Out across the dreaming sea. 
Let your thoughts creep back to eastward, 

Till at last they come to me 1 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 193 



TYPEWRITER SOLDIERS 



Oh ! they talk of mobilizing in the countries far away, 

They speak with pride of soldiers who are ready for the 
war; 
They brag about the troops that they can muster in a day. 
And say that fighting men like theirs were never seen 
before. 
We do not contradict them for we're neutral — praise the 
Lord — 
And yet we know in one small room, on one small black 
machine. 
That we could raise a million men, a mighty little horde ; 
To go a-marching through the world and leave the nations 
clean. 

Oh ! we do not brag about our men, but every one is standing. 

With gun on shoulder, waiting for his officer's command; 
And though we do not say it, we would like to see them 
landing. 

And marching on, victorious, across some hostile land. 
Oh ! Alexander's troops were weak, and so was Cesar's legion, 

Compared with all our army that is scouting, grim 
and slow; 
And woe betide the enemy that does not leave the region, 

When every regiment is out with bullets for the foe. 

Oh ! the army's always ready for a fight, and on their faces 
If you look close, you'll see a gleam of pleasure, and a 
smile ; 
They're never in disorder for they never leave their places, 
Unless they march together through the country for a 
while. 

13 



194 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

They'll face the strongest fire for a cannon does not shatter 
Their ranks — and not a siege gun made could frighten 
or displace them; 
There's only one grave weapon — and I'm sure it does not 
matter — 
For who would take the trouble to creep up and then 
erase them? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 195 



THAT'S HEAVEN! 



When the sky is hlue and shining, 

And the sun is full of light, 
When the autumn leaves are falling 

From the trees from morn till night; 
When you see the childish faces 

Growing rosy red and bright. 
That's heaven! 

When the crippled ones are laughing 

(And their minds are free from pain) ; 

When the babies roll together 

In the autumn's golden grain; 

Then you hear the angels singing. 
And their voices sweet explain, 
^'That's heaven !" 



196 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE FABLE OF THE 
POISON IVY 



ONCE upon a time, when there were witches and fairies 
and dragons with fiery eyes (that lived in the nar- 
row minds of the people), there was a girl who dwelt 
in a little house on the edge of a fair city. She was a slender 
girl, with light wavy hair, and blue eyes that glittered with 
the coldness of ice, and a mouth that was a straight hard 
line and the color of a roseleaf. She lived alone in the 
little house, but she had many guests; for the idle women 
of the city who had more time than they knew what to 
do with would bring their sewing to her home and would 
sit there and talk during the long afternoons. 

When the idle women who had more time than they 
knew what to do with would visit her, she would sit listening 
to them as they talked, and, sometimes, when they men- 
tioned a name in their conversation, she would raise her 
eyebrows ever so lightly and twitch up the corners of her 
mouth in a sneery little smile. And when the idle women 
saw her smile, they would stop talking and glance in her 
direction, and at last one of them would say, perhaps de- 
fiantly, "Well, isn't she nice? Why do you look at me that 
way?" And the girl would laugh a little laugh as hard as 
sleigh-bells echoing over a frosty meadow, a laugh that was 
bright and musical and cold, and she would say: "Yes, 
she's very nice, but — " And she would laugh again. 

It was not always a girl they talked about, these idle 
women. It was sometimes a prominent lord who lived in 
the city, or a great lady, or even the king and queen them- 
selves that bore the brunt of the gossiping. And the girl 
who lived in the little cottage, because she was no respecter 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 197 

of persons or rank, would smile her little smile and would 
say: "Yes, she's clever, but I know — " and she would leave 
it unfinished. Or perchance when they talked of a great lady, 
she would raise her eyebrows and murmur, "Indeed she is 
beautiful; and not only the women think so. Oftentimes 
I see — " and she would laugh her hard laugh. And the 
idle women, after they finished their sewing, when the sun 
was going down to rest behind the highest hill, would 
walk slowly home. And in their hearts there would be a bit 
of an unspoken doubt about some fair lady, or great lord, 
or poor girl. And the doubt in their hearts would take root 
and grow, until finally it would be a certainty that they 
confided to their dearest friends, who in turn confided it 
to their dearest friends, until the whole great city drew 
aside its skirts when certain folk passed and whispered com- 
ments behind obviously raised hands. 

Once, in the midst of a deep snowstorm, a woman came 
to town. Because the girl's cottage was the first she saw, 
the woman stumbled down upon the doorstep frosted with 
the cold, and asked for shelter. The girl, who never did 
anything unkind — with her hands — took the woman in and 
fed her and warmed her by the fire. And as a glow of coIot 
began to creep back into the woman's face, the girl watched 
her with ice-blue speculative eyes — eyes that saw every de- 
tail of the threadbare dress and ragged shoes and sad ex- 
pression. But she asked no questions; she never asked 
question-s. 

The woman did not stay the night. When she was rested, 
she stumbled to her feet, and said that she had business 
in the city that she must attend to. And the girl raised 
her eyebrows and offered no resistance. Why should she 
urge a beggar woman to stay in her home, and eat more 
than was necessary of her food, and bask in the light of her 
fire? She had been kind enough. 

The woman appreciated the kindness, for she had been 
cold indeed before she had found the cottage door, before 
she had Been the warm light streaming out on the snow 



198 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

through the little windows. As she reached the door she 
turned to the girl, and, in the manner of the day, raised 
her hands high above her head. 

"You have been good to me," she said, ''good as one 
Christian is to another. I am an old beggar woman with 
no gifts to give you and no blessing worth the while to leave 
behind me. Only this will I say: Your face and your 
form are flower-like; you are like some beautiful growing 
thing in the wildwood. May you grow more and more 
like!" And the woman opened the door and was lost to 
sight among the swirling snowflakes. 

Time went on and news came that the old woman was 
living in the fair city. She did no work and seldom passed 
out upon the street. But she had food to eat and clothes 
to wear and she was evidently happy, very happy indeed. 
Naturally folk talked, and finally one day the idle women 
who were sewing in the girl's little parlor brought up the 
subject; and, as always, the girl raised her eyebrows and 
smiled her smile. 

"Indeed," she said, in her coldly musical voice, "indeed 
it seems no mystery to me. The woman on her way to town, 
at the time of her arrival, stopped at my home for shelter 
and warmth and food. She was ragged, and starving, and 
I gave to her of my plenty. In return she gave me noth- 
ing, for she said that she was penniless. But she told 
me that she had important work that night in the great 
city . . ." The girl laughed scornfully for a minute 
before she went on. "As you know," she said, "there have 
been robberies — " And she left her sentence unfinished. 

It was then that it happened. The door opened as if 
it had been struck by a gust of wind, and the woman came 
in and stood with accusingly pointed finger on the threshold. 
Although her face was sad and her clothes were ragged there 
was a certain dignity about her that awed the idle women 
into silence. With hand upraised in the fashion of the 
day, she faced the girl. 

"I thought," she said, "that you were kind, but I find 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 199 

that you have a poisoned soul. I will add to my original 
blessing: May you grow to be the flower, the woodland 
plant, that you most resemble !" 

As she stood there with her hand upraised, a wonderful 
thing happened. The sky grew suddenly overcast, and a 
flash of lightning filled the room with a blue-white light. 
In that flash all things for a moment stood out distinctly; 
and then, as suddenly as she had come, the woman disap- 
peared. And the idle women who had come to gossip fled 
shrieking toward home. They never stopped to see what 
had happened to the girl. 

No one went near the little cottage on the outskirts of 
the city for months. For once the idle women had feared 
to repeat the story that they had seen acted before them. 
But one day in the early summer, they crept back to the 
spot they had so often visited. The cottage stood Just as 
they had left it with the door wide, and there was no sign 
of occupation, but all over the little porch there grew a 
vine, a slender vine with graceful green leaves growing three 
on a stem. And the women remembered the prophecy that 
they had heard. 

"Ah," said one of them, "it is our friend !" And with 
a frightened hand she reached out and touched the swaying 
green vine, and as she touched it her hand swelled up and 
blisters appeared on it, and it burned and itched and smarted 
as many minds had burned and itched and smarted when 
the girl's words had touched them. And for the second time 
the women fled shrieking toward home. 

This is the end of the legend. Since that day, so the 
story tells, on the outskirts of town and in the woods and 
over deserted cottages, there has grown a vine, beautiful and 
graceful and decorative, but — poisonous. And since that day 
folk have avoided it. It is called the poison ivy. 



200 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



LOVE OF PEOPLE 



TWO girls were walking through a Fifth Avenue picture 
gallery one day. It was a wonderful picture gallery 
filled with soft carpets, and brilliant tapestries, and 
glowing masterpieces set, jewel-like, in exquisite frames. 

''Oh !" breathed one of the girls, "I love art." 

"So do I," agreed the other girl enthusiastically, "so do 
I, hut I love people better." 

Have you ever been down through the city's east side in 
the summertime when the babies were lying on the pavement 
gasping for a breath of air ? Have you ever tramped f rozenly 
down the Bowery on a blustery winter day when folk passed 
you with discouraged steps and looked at you with furtive 
eyes gleaming from blue faces? Have you ever stood on 
Second Avenue, "the boulevard of the east side," on a 
glowing spring afternoon and watched the gorgeous bird-of- 
paradise crowds saunter past? 

I remember the first time that I ever came to New 
York alone. I stood on the street corner in front of a 
dangerous crossing, afraid to walk to the other side; and as 
I hesitated there I found myself studying the sea of faces 
that whirled around me. I saw the nervous, overdressed 
boys who darted from beneath horses' hoofs, and watched 
the rouged young ladies who found time, while an automobile 
was dashing madly upon them, to raise long-lashed eyes 
effectively toward admiring men. I saw country women 
and ragged children who ran past, I saw an old world lady 
in a black shawl ... I forgot that I wanted to cross 
the street and stood there fascinated. 

A clever interviewer once asked President Wilson what 
every-day amusement gave him the most enjoyment. I think 
that the president must have smiled when he answered. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 201 

"Why/' he said (although I cannot remember the exact 
words), "why, I think more than anything that I enjoy 
getting into the midst of a crowd where I can see people!" 
Perhaps that is why he is able to be a leader of men. 

There are a great many folk, I think, who forget to love 
people as well as art. I have seen a rich woman spend a 
great deal of money buying a wonderful rug and then, on 
the way from the shop to her limousine, draw her skirts 
away from a ragged child with a dirty cherub face who sat 
on the curb stone. She forgot that the rug (which she had 
gone into ecstasies over) was a man-made work of art, while 
the ragged child was one of God's own masterpieces. I 
have seen overdressed, little-souled men and women riding 
by in their carriages who have gazed blandly over the surg- 
ing throng with never a smile. I have seen girls exclaim 
over a dress without thinking of the living human being 
who wore it. 

Get next to people. Don't try to stand high above them 
and look far out over their heads at the wonder of a man- 
decorated world. Mingle with the crowd, stand on a street 
corner with the crush of humanity swirling about you, wander 
through the quiet of a country town or the noise of a city 
slum. And then, if perchance, you should some day walk 
through the glories of a Fifth Avenue picture gallery, see 
if the beauty (although you love it) doesn't seem nearly 
lifeless to you. 



202 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



SEE SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL! 



"T HATE this ride," said the girl, as our train swung 
J|_ like some giant worm across the meadows that make 
the entrance into the outskirts of the city. "It's so 
horribly tiresome. The levelness is so unbroken by any tree 
or building, and it's all the same dull green color. I hate 
this ride!" 

I looked out of the window, and my mind echoed the 
words that she had spoken, for the heat waves of an August 
day crept dully over the duller landscape — a landscape that 
met a greyish, warm-looking sky. It was level, it was dull, 
it was unbroken by any tree or building, that stretch of 
meadows ! I sighed, 

"I don't wonder that you sigh," said the girl ; ''you look 
at it every day. It must get on your nerves." 

Again my eyes traveled out over the meadows, and as I 
looked, as if in answer to her challenge a tiny breeze flew 
straight down from heaven and fled murmuringly across the 
dull green of the grass. And as I looked, I saw the long 
spears bend their heads and ripple as the waves of the sea 
ripple. I saw a strangely silver shade in the midst of the 
greenness, and I realized as I gazed that a dull meadow, in 
August, can be a very beautiful thing indeed. 

It's rather odd, when you stop to think, how many really 
beautiful things we take for granted in this world of ours. 
Of course, the beautiful things are sometimes very little, 
sometimes things that we have seen so often that we are 
completely accustomed to them ; but they are beautiful never- 
theless. It's a wonderful thing to know that God has taken 
the trouble to form each clover leaf into a picture, and 
make a masterpiece of each cloud, to put the sunlight in a 
girl's hair or rosy flower tint in a baby's cheek. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 203 

Some famous writer once said, "You should see some- 
thing beautiful every day." If you follow that rule it makes 
life happier, and smoothes out a great many of the rough 
places that make the way hard. When you dislike some- 
thing or are bored by something or are absolutely indifferent 
to something, if you stop to analyze it you will doubtless 
find something remarkable that you have never noticed 
before — that you have never taken the trouble to notice. 

I have a friend who works in a dingy office in a dingy 
part of the city. Because it is necessary for her to work, 
she was obliged to take a position that did not interest her, 
that had nothing fascinating about it. She tried to do 
her work well, but every day the task grew duller and more 
grey-colored and more downright hard. After she had had 
the position for a month, she came to see me and I noticed 
the change in her usually cheerful face. 

"Why, Marion," I said, "what is the matter? You look 
so worn out and discouraged and almost sick. Has any- 
thing gone wrong?" 

"No," sighed the girl, "nothing's gone very wrong. Per- 
haps that's part of the trouble. In my work nothing ever 
goes wrong — or very right either, for that matter; it just 
keeps on being tiresome and dull and — sordid, I hate it so 
that it's beginning to get on my nerves, it's beginning to 
take the happiness out of my heart. It's beginning to ruin 
my disposition. What shall I do?" 

It's rather embarrassing to have one's friends ask advice. 
What should I tell her? I racked my brain for an answer, 
and then suddenly, like a flash of light in a dark spot, the 
thought of the famous writer's words swept across my mind. 

"Have you ever tried to see anything interesting or 
funny or beautiful in your work ?" I asked. 

The girl wrinkled up her forehead for a moment and 
thought. Suddenly a pink little blush crept up to her pale 
cheeks. "Why — why, no," she stammered, "I never have. 
I've only seen the horrid side of it. I've only tried to see 
the horrid side of it!" 



204 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Several weeks went by before I saw my friend again. In 
that time I wondered about her very often; wondered if 
she had been able to find anything bright in the sordid 
little office, or the dull part of town, or the uninteresting 
people she came in contact with. And then one day my 
unspoken questions were answered, for I met her by chance 
in the street, and one look at her rosy, happy face swept 
away all of my misgivings and wonderings. 

"It's better, isn't it?" I said by way of greeting. "You 
don't hate it so much, do you?" 

The girl looked at me with something very like wonder 
in her large eyes. Quite suddenly she laughed. "Oh," she 
grasped, between giggles, "oh, you mean my position. Why, 
I've forgotten that I ever did dislike it, it's so interesting 
now. Why, I'm crazy about the work !" 

I stood before her with open-eyed amazement, there on 
the street. It was such a change, such a remarkable change 
to come about in a few weeks. "How does it happen," I' 
questioned, "that things seem so much better?" 

The girl puckered up her brow in an effort to think. 
"It happened," she told me, "the day after you spoke about 
seeing something interesting. I was sitting up in the window 
looking way down the street, and instead of thinking of 
the people who were walking so far below me as little black 
ants (I always had thought of them as little black ants), I 
began to imagine that each one had a personality. And 
then, after I felt a little happier about the streets, I looked 
around the office — it was empty then — and instead of think- 
ing how dirty and dull and unpleasant it looked, I thought 
instead, 'Why, the wall's a good color — under the dust; and 
the table would be real pretty, if it wasn't so mussed up, 
and new blotters would do wonders to these desks.' 

"I hadn't much to do that day, and so whenever I was 
alone I dusted and straightened up and cleaned. The next 
day I did the same thing, and by that night the change was 
really remarkable. When that cross Mr. Blank came through 
on his way home, he almost jumped, he was so surprised. 



UEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 205 

*Do you know/ he told me, 'I haven't seen the place looking 
so well for years/ He smiled, and for the first time I noticed 
that he had pleasant eyes and a good face." She paused. 
I sighed appreciatively. 

"So that's why you're happy?" I questioned. 

'TTes, that's why I'm happy," said my friend, and her 
voice was very musical. "Things have been different ever 
since. Everybody's been nicer, and the room is beginning to 
look awfully pretty. One of the men put up some shelves 
for the books, and another one had a furniture shop take 
away the desks to be polished. Mr. Blank has smiled — often, 
and," suddenly she laughed again, "and I love my work 
now!" she told me. 

No, it isn't hard to brighten up your life if you try to 
see beauty in commonplace things. I fancy there's very little 
that couldn't seem beautiful, if you pick out the best points 
and ignore the disagreeable ones. There isn't a swamp that 
hasn't some beautiful flowers growing in it, and there are 
mighty few unpainted, weather-stained barns that haven't 
got a swallow or two keeping house under the eaves. If 
you open up the dullest grey oyster, you may find a pearl 
in it, and if you look at a buzzing, biting mosquito in the 
right kind of a light you will see what gauzy, chiffony things 
its wings are. 

It's a good rule to live by, this famous author's rule: 
"See something beautiful every day." And if you make it 
a little stronger and say, "See something beautiful in every- 
thing," you can even get a thrill from watching a tiny breeze 
play over a field of dull meadow grass. 



206 RMAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



READING AT TWILIGHT 



She sits by the window reading, 

In the last red glow of the day; 
When the sun, like some monarch's ruby, 

Is vanishing swift away. 
And her hands that are worn with working, 

Rest light on the printed page ; 
While her mind forgets pain and sorrow, 

And toiling and care and age. 

She sits by the window reading. 

And day that is almost done. 
Lights her face with a golden glory. 

Sent down by the dying sun. 
And her heart, that is tired, maybe. 

And weary and worn with pain. 
Responds to some writer's message, 

Like a plant to the fragrant rain. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 207 



THE DEAD FLOWER 



What are you dreaming of, little maidf 
Your eyes looh tired and half afraid. 
Is life too much for your shoulders thin? 
A burden darJc on your soul within? 
Why are you dreaming, my little maid. 
Your eyes looh tired and half afraid. 

I saw a child in the city street, 

A wan little wraith was she ; 
Her eyes were deep as a well of tears, 

And sad as two eyes could be. 
And as I looked, on her little face 
A sorrow showed that was out of place — 

And I said: "Tell it all to me!" 

She raised her eyes from the dusty street. 
Her eyes that were hurt and wide; 

And, "What do you think?" she said to me, 
"My one lil' flower — died. 

'Twas the only one that I ever saw, 

I don't believe there can be no more T 
And she put down her head and cried. 

"You had a flower?" I asked her then— 
"Why, child, there are plenty more ! 

They grow in fields in the country, wild, 
IJp close to my very door. 

You shall have a plant, yes— or two or three !" 

But the child raised her eyes that were sad to see 
And sobbed as she sobbed before. 



208 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

"Don't cry," I urged, "there — please dry your eyes. 
Far off where no weeds can shove. 

Your plant will grow 'neath the care of God, 
Close up to His throne above !" 

"Yer foolin' now," said the child to me, 

"There ain't no flowers that I can see — 
An' . . . what do I know of love?" 

What are you dreaming of, little maid? 
Your eyes looJc tired and half afraid. 
We can't expect that you know a love 
You never felt, from the land above — 
Why are you dreaming, my little maid. 
Your eyes looTc tired and half afraid. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 209 



A GOLDEN WEDDING 



When the days are shining with blue and gold, 

And the leaves come fluttering down; 
And the fruits are stored in a shining hoard 

For the king of the autumn's crown. 
When the brightest days from a season fair 

Have banished all doubts and fears; 
Then with joy and love from the God above 

You take the harvest of years. 

Fifty summers all gay with green, 

Fifty winters of cold; 
When the winds have moaned, and the trees have groaned, 

Life the wolf on a fearful fold. 
But always the sun has come out again. 

And the star gleams sweet and dim 
Have lent their light to a harvest bright, 

A harvest of years to Him. 



14 



210 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



KINDNESS 



They say: "Be kind to animals, 
Don't pull the pussy's tail — 

An' pat the horsie on the nose, 
An' fill his dinner pail ! 

Don't slap the doggie when he barks; 
In kindness never fail." 

They say: "Do deeds to other folks 
That you would have them do 

If they were here to fill your place. 
An' bein' nice to you !" 

We learn a text at Sunday school 
'At tells it straight an' true. 

So when I get a sugar lump 

(Or maybe two or three), 
I give 'em to you, Mister 'Coon, 

So you can plainly see 
What I would like — if you were I, 

To have you do to me. 

But my ! you're big an' awful rough, 

Your face is like a moon. 
So round, and oh ! so scary, too . . . 

Your growl is out o' tune ! 
Oh please don't jump (I'm bein' kind!) 

Don't bite me. Mister 'Coon! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 211 



TO A LION IN A ZOO 



Lion, standing grim and silent. 

In your cage — 
Do these jeering human beings 

Make you rage? 
Do their faces — sneering, staring, 

Haunt you? 
Does their laughter, coming sharply. 

Taunt you? 

Years ago you roamed the jungle. 

Wild and free; 
Made your home beneath the shadow 

Of some tree. 
You were king of all the forest; 

From your play, 
Birds and beasts and crawling serpents 

Crept away. 

All the woodland feared the thunder 

Of your roar — 
Ah ! all creatures knew the tearing 

Of your claw. 
Eagles high above the tree-tops 

Screamed and flew; 
You were monarch of the jungle, 

And — ^they knewl 

Men came — came with guns and lances. 

Unafraid, 
You, of all the forest creatures, 

Near them strayed. 



212 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

Eopes they had, and fighting fiercely. 

You were tied. . . . 
Did you wish that in the struggle 

You had died? 

In an iron box they brought you, 

O'er the sea — 
Lonely for your home, no longer 

Proud and free. 
To a park they dragged you helpless, 

Beat you, too; 
In a narrow cage they thrust you, 

In a zoo. 

Lion, standing wistful, hopeless. 

In your cell, 
Does your kingly soul feel burning 

Blasts from hell? 
Do these faces, sneering, staring. 

Taunt you? 
Does their lack of understanding 

Haunt you ? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 213 



MISTS O' THE SEA 



The mist creeps up, a ghostly white, 

The wind wails on the sea; 

And oh! I try to close my ears, 

For it is telling me 

Of trenches filled with blood and snow, 
Of men that stagger as they go. 
Of hungry children crying low ; 

Of dark without gleam of light; 

Of suffering and tears. 

The mist creeps up — a ghostly white. 
The surf groans on the sand; 
I clasp my hands before my eyes, 
But in that other land 

The women pale with bitter tears, 

Are wondering if many years 

Can smooth away their pain — their fears- 
I seem to hear through all the night. 
Their pleading cries. 



214 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE MIRACLE OF THE SWAMP 



THEEE is a swamp not far from my home — a swamp 
with a small round pool in almost the center of it. 
It is a disagreeable little place at best, this pool, for 
the water is dark and slimy, and the banks are covered 
with unhealthy looking mud. One knows instinctively (al- 
though it is impossible to see to the bottom of this pool) 
that there are tree roots, and tin cans, and snakes somewhere 
beneath the opaque surface of the water. 

In the winter I saw this pool covered with ice; not the 
blue-white sparkling ice of a healthy little lake, but the 
greenish brownish slime-filled ice of a sordid little swamp 
pool. Later, in very early spring, I saw the ice melt and 
the natural unpleasantness return. In late spring, however, 
I began to see a change, for green shoots began to appear 
above the water and small leaves of a deep velvety substance 
began to open — and to grow. It transformed the pool into 
a perfect fairy bower — a meeting-place for Titania and her 
band. 

It was not until sunset time on one summer day that I 
saw the miracle. I cannot help calling it a miracle, for the 
slimy pool had been very slimy indeed. As I passed by the 
swamp I first noticed a vague perfume, very different from 
the usual musty odor of it, and then suddenly the pool, 
bathed in the rainbow light of the sunset, came before my 
eyes. It was a pool glorified, for it was covered with golden- 
hearted lilies that were as pure and white as snow. 

Once, some time ago, I had a friend who was nearly a 
philosopher. He used to talk vividly on life, and one of 
the points that he used to bring out as I sat round-eyed 
and utterly believing, in the early twilight, was this: 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 215 

"All people," lie said, "are born with an equal chance! 
The son of a beggar has just as much chance as the son of 
a millionaire!" 

Perhaps — 

You all, maybe, have seen beautiful gardens. You have 
seen roses blooming in well-ordered beds, and pansies smil- 
ing happily from a velvet lawn. You have seen tulips and 
sweet peas and asters cultivated beautifully. Then again 
most of you have been in greenhouses. You have perhaps 
seen rare orchids and carnations and ferns thriving among 
all the conveniences of modern gardening, and, either in the 
garden or the greenhouse, hasn't this thought occurred to 
you : "Well, why shouldn't they be beautiful ? Haven't they 
every reason to grow?" 

Few of you, perhaps, have seen the miracle of a lily 
blooming in a swamp pool. But when you see such a thing 
you can't help feeling as if the lily deserves more credit than 
the roses or orchids that grow in the carefully cultivated 
beds. It is easier to grow beautiful where everything else 
is beautiful than it is to come up, pure and white — with a 
golden heart — from the mud of a swamp. 

I have been reading a book today that told of the struggles 
of a waif who was literally taken out of the slums of a city. 
With a murderer for a father and a drunkard for a mother 
(both of whom died when she was very young), she is left 
to battle alone with the temptations of the world. I can- 
not begin to tell you the trials that she walks through un- 
scathed, but when, in the last chapter, she marries a noble- 
man and lives happily ever after, I gave a very profound sigh 
of relief. The book was unreal? Yes. Noblemen aren't 
marrying many slum girls. But the book was fascinating 
and in a way it gripped you. For the girl was a lily and 
her environment was the pool in the swamp. She might 
have been a little weed in the mud on the banks — she 
might have been the slime even (it would have been easier), 
but she kept her heart and her soul pure — and she won ! 

Oftentimes girls write to me or talk to me about their 



216 REAL PEOPLE — AND DBEAMS 

lives. And oftentimes I hear one of them say: "If I had 
a different chance I could do differently !" "If my home 
were in the country (or in the city, as the case may be) 
I could work out my own salvation !" "If my family would 
help me, I could succeed!" 

Oh, friends of mine, there are many, many "ifs" in this 
world and they are the roots that hold you down to the 
bottom of the pool where the slime of discouragement, and 
the mud of horror, and the snakes of despair live. Of course 
it's easier to stay in the bottom, to never look above the 
surface of things; but it's braver, and greater, and more 
beautiful to rise to the surface (even though the struggle 
bruises you, and at times makes your heart heavy and your 
thoughts sad) ; for when you rise to the top, there will be 
fragrance and sunlight and happiness waiting for your pure 
white soul and your golden heart. 

Girls, dear, some of you may be rich and happy, with a 
future spreading brightly before your eyes. I hope that 
you'll read this article, but it isn't so much for you as it is 
for the girls who have been unhappy, who — perhaps — cannot 
see up to God through the muddiness of the little pool that 
they live in. There's a rule that they will have to follow 
to reach the top, a rule that Lincoln, and Napoleon, and 
David, who was a shepherd boy, must have followed to make 
them leaders. This is the rule: 

Keep learning, and hoping, and praying, and pushing ! 

That's the rule that turns a swamp into a place of 
miracles ! 



REAL PEOPLE^'AND DREAMS 217 



ON COUNTING CHICKENS 



IEEAD a story long ago, when I was rather small, about 
a girl who was so poor, so very poor, that all she owned 

was just a basket full of eggs, but still she planned that 
some day she would be quite rich in houses, stock and land. 

She said that when the eggs were hatched the chickens 
she would sell, and with the money that she gained she'd buy 
a cow, and well — before she knew it she had made a million, 
more or less, there in her mind. But as she thought her 
hands (I must confess that dreamers oftentimes are careless 
with their arms and legs) slipped from the basket and she 
dropped and shattered all the eggs ! 

It's easy sitting by the road to while away the time, 
when just a little longer walk — perhaps an hour's climb up 
some steep hill — will take you to the goal of your desire 
before the sunset comes; and yet you rest and climb no 
higher, but sit and dream of all the things you'll do when 
you get there — of money and of fame, perhaps, of health 
and beauty rare 

And then at last when all the glow has faded from the 
sky, you rise to go along, but to your dream-filled, tired eye 
the way will seem a thousand miles, the goal a misty token ; 
and as you tramp along you'll know your eggs have all been 
broken. 

If s easy, friends, to smile at folk who plod along the 
road, who work and struggle by themselves and drag a heavy 
load, while you sit near and tell yourself the things that you 
will do — the treasure that your wealth will buy when all your 
dreams come true. 

It isn't hard to count the gold that you may never own, 
or hear the whirr of motor cars when you must walk alone. 



218 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

And yet, if you would work and build a little bit each day, 
the gold and cars might come to you — might meet you on 
the way. 

Get to your toil ! Don't worry much, smile on the world 
a bit; and don't let others forge ahead as by the path you 
sit. Dream only when the heavy task is folded on the shelf, 
and do not plan to spend your gold until you have, your- 
self, earned every penny. Then your soul with strength and 
courage backed, will reach your expectation's goal with every 
egg intact. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 219 



CONVICT No. 66 



THE day was drawing to a close, but no crimson rays 
from the setting sun came into the cell of Convict 
No. 66. For the cell was under ground, and the light 
was the same all day; that gloomy twilight which makes the 
sentimental weep and think of home. 

Convict No. 66 did not weep and he did not think of 
home — he had none. Moreover, he was not sentimental. He 
had had all that knocked out of him long ago. Still, he 
occasionally allowed himself to think. He did now. 

Here he was in the prison; he had been there for many 
years, and would stay there until death should cut his 
chains. It would not be long now, for his eyes were growing 
dim and his hair was white. 

He remembered the happy childhood when he had played 
with his little brother and the Girl. She had been a mighty 
pretty little girl, with long curls and big blue eyes. He had 
gone to the inevitable little red schoolhouse, also with the 
Girl, and had said his lesson, and failed, and been whipped. 
And then in the evening when he told mother all about it, 
she had rocked him and had sung his song to him : 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight. 

And then the night when he had told the Girl how much 
he loved her, and she . . . 

Then his mother had died, and he, in the confidence of 
his youth, had gone to the city to win a fortune. 

He had done well, very well, until he met a man who 
seemed to be his friend. He had a drink with this friend, 
then another, and another. A tough had swaggered into the 



220 BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

saloon and called him "country." Urged on by the friend 
that he trusted, and being mad with the fire in his brain, 
he seized a knife from the bar and lunged at the man again 
and again with all his strength. 

Convict No, Q% sighed. How clearly he remembered it 
all! Oh, so clearly! The trial in which he had given an 
assumed name, for the Girl must never know; the sentence 
for life ! the long, long years. 

A voice in the next cell began to sing. Convict No. 66 
listened. It was the new boy, homesick. He sang : 

Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight; 
Make me a child again just for to-night. 
Mother, come back — 

The boyish voice stopped in mid-air with a sob, but Con- 
vict No. Q% did not hear it. His head had fallen upon his 
breast and his lips held the shadow of a smile on them. 
He was a child again — for always — and perhaps his mother 
was rocking him to sleep. 

The cell was very still. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 221 



A THORNY ROSE 



Ah, darlin', there's a rose bush by th' little cabin door. 
An' every time it blossoms I am missin' ye the more; 
For we planted it, together, in our love's first rosy glow. 
An' I've tended it an' loved it from th' time ye had t' go. 
Shure, dear, me tears have watered it, me smiles have been 

its sun; 
I have plucked its flowers faithful, I have kept them every 

one. 
An' beside it, standin' weary, in the dusk and early mom 
I have listened f er yer comin' but . . . me rose bush has 

a thorn. 

Ah, dearest, there's a rose bush by th' little cabin door; 
When I look at it I love it though me heart is achin' sore ; 
For th' blossoms pink are tellin' me th' words ye uster say 
About me cheeks a-matchin' them. The very winds at play 
Deal lightly with me rose bush, an' its slender tendrils twine 
About me little doorway, as yer fingers once held mine; 
Ah, ye left me, darlin' — tell me was it pride, or love or scorn ? 
I have waited fer yer comin', but . . . me rose bush 
has a thorn. 

Ah, sweetheart, there's a rose bush by th' little cabin door. 
When I sit inside, its shadder sways across th' earthen floor, 
An' I wonder as I watch it if th' time will ever be 
When you'll be comin' back again to Ireland and to me. 
Machree, I love ye ! Can't ye hear ? — ^me words should travel 

far, 
Fer if a love be strong an' true, th' miles but inches are — 
Shure, me arms are reachin' toward ye, but me heart with 

sorrow's torn. 
An' I'm waitin' fer ye, darlin', but . . . me rose bush 

has a thorn. 



222 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



HARVEST GOLD 



If God came down from out the sky. 

To count His harvest gold ; 
His eyes would look past orchard land, 

Past plain and fold. 
His eyes would see a gleaming light — 

Cornstalks and sun; 
But He would dream of shout and scream, 

Of sword and gun. 

If God came down from out the sky, 

To count His harvest wealth; 
He would not feel the winds that glow 

With life and health. 
For every breeze would bear a sob — 

A sob for peace; 
And on the air would be a prayer, 

For swift release. 

If God came down from out the sky, 

To count His harvest store; 
His fragrant fields would seem unreal. 

For bones and gore 
Are cast amid the broken sheaves. 

And dead men lie. 
Wrapped in the haze of autumn days. 

Beneath the sky. 

If God came down from out the sky. 

To count His harvest gold; 
His eyes would look with wistful glance. 

O'er countries old. 
Where harvest days are days of hate. 

Of cries and tears, 
Where shot and shell are fruits — of Hell — 

To blast the years. 

// God should count His harvest gold today, 
What would He say? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 223 



FRAGMENTS 



Dearest, ask me questions. 
Ask me — ask me true, 
''Do you love me?" Silly, 
Why of course I do ! 



Ah ! dear, if I should try to tell 

How much I love you. 

My head would bow. 

And tears would fall 

Because I could not tell you all; 

I know not words enough, and well, 

I vow — 

In many years I could not tell 

How much I love you! 



I lived for years and never knew you, darling; 
The years were bright — but they were empty, too . 
And then you came, your eyes seemed searching for me. 

You smiled — as only I have seen you do. 
And quickly, as a homing bird at twilight, 

I sought your arms — I felt your kisses sweet — 
And then, my dear, I knew that I was living. 
For all my world at last was made complete ! 



That night — my dear! 
The mysteries of Heaven touched the earth. 
And life and happiness and joy and mirth 
Were crowded in one second, breathlessly — 
And, all at once I knew that I could die 
Content — and never question reasons why 
I left the earth — ^for all of joy and light 
Were in that night. 



224 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



'IF" 



If all the sea were made of tears 
That fell from saddened eyes, 

This world would be a sorry place; 
The sound of wails and cries 

Would echo from the morning light. 

Until the darkness told of night. 

If all the winds were made of sobs 
That came from souls in pain. 

Each summer breeze would be a sigh, 
Each gentle summer rain 

Would bring a message dull and drear. 

For saddened folk on earth to hear. 

If all the hills were made of care. 

And worry, and regret. 
No one would try to scale their heights. 

Or climb their sides, and yet — 
The hills would grow to reach the sky, 
And many folk would wonder why! 

If every sunbeam were a smile 
That left some heart aglow. 

The weary earth would raise its head 
And laugh to see it so — 
And folk would happy, happy be 

As far as eyes could look and see. 

If every little grain of sand 

Were just a bit of love — 
A song would ring through all the land, 

And God who reigns above 
Would lean from out the Heavens crown, 
And send a benediction down. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 335 



A MOTHER'S PRAYER AT 
CHRISTMAS 



I hold my baby up to Thee, 
So that, perchance, his eyes may see 
A greater love than even mine, 
A love divine. 

Oh! Master, 

Make my baby's life 
A happy journey. Ease his strife 
With care, and toil and want and pain; 
Let not the fear of loss or gain 
Blot out the gladness in his eyes, 
Or dim the light that in them lies — 
The very light of Bethlehem's star, 
That shone afar. 

Dear Jesus, 

With Thy boundless care. 
Make bright his pathway — everywhere; 
Let not deceit, or craft, or guile 
Turn to a sneer his tender smile. 
For many hundred years ago, 
When all the land was clothed in snow. 
Another Baby smiling lay. 
On Christmas Day. 

My Savior, 

Hear this humble prayer, 
Keep Thou his tiny hands so fair, 

15 



286 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

All pinkly tinted like a flower, 

Away from heedless wealth and power; 

But let them always open be, 

To sufferers that he may see — 

As once Christ's baby hand uncurled, 

To bless the world ! 

I hold my baby up to Thee, 
So that His eyes may look and see. 
The promise of a love divine, 
Greater than mine ! 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 327 



THE LONELY LADY'S CHRISTMAS 
STORY 



THE Lonely Lady sits in her sunny window during the 
day — before her glowing fire in the evening. She has 
a cat, and a ball of knitting, and when folk drop to 
talk to her she takes out a fascinating tea kettle and lights the 
alcohol lamp under it with a blue-veined slender hand. But, 
though she laughs charmingly, and tells gentle little jokes, 
and talks sympathetically, a shadow dwells behind the soft- 
ness of her eyes, that may be hurt, or wistfulness, or both. 

It "was a dark blowing night outside, with a sharpness of 
steel in the air, but the Lonely Lady's room glowed like the 
heart of some great rose. It was just a week before Christ- 
mas and as the wind blew fiercely against the shutters it 
sounded as if all the homeless children in the city were wail- 
ing and beating with their fists, to be let in. The Lonely 
Lady shivered and moved closer to the fire. 

"It was on such a night — the night before Christmas — 
that it happened," she sighed. "Fifty-five years ago I" 

"It?" I questioned. Stories in front of an open fire- 
place with the wind outside — I loved them ! 

The Lonely Lady stared into the fire. Tiny flames were 
creeping along a huge log and the sparks crackled out merrily. 

"Fifty-five years ago !" she said again — "and now my hair 
is white" . . . she shaded her eyes with her hand. 

"Jim and I were at church," she began softly, "practicing 
for the Christmas music. There were old carols — 'God Eest 
Ye, Merry Gentlemen,' 'It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,' 
lots of them. Jim had a good voice and I often stopped sing- 
ing my own parts to listen to him. ... I was engaged 
to Jim. 



228 EEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

"We practiced for a few hours and then we started home 
over the fields — fields full of snow, silver in the moonlight 
with little dark paths running crossways through them. I 
held Jim's arm and he hummed as he went along. 'Peace 
on Earth, Good Will Toward Men,' he hummed. Jim had 
a sweet voice — I was happy listening. 

"We walked along slowly until we came to a fence. Jim 
was letting down the pasture bars when we heard a faint 
sound. It seemed like a kitten to me, but Jim started and 
turned around. 

" *A baby,' he said. 

"'Nonsense,' I told him nervously, 'nonsense, let's go 
home !' 

"Jim stopped his humming. His eyes looked strange in 
the moonlight. Jim had grey eyes like cold steel sometimes, 
and sometimes like the sky on an October day. 

" 'I'm ashamed of you, girl,' he said (he always called me 
girl). "'We'll go see who's in trouble." 

"The snow blew about our ankles as we hurried along. 
It was damp and sticky and I held close to the rough sleeve 
of Jim's coat. Presently we came to a dark bundle in the 
snow. It was a baby. Jim lifted it tenderly in his arms 
while I stood shivering. 

" 'It's all wrapped up in a blanket,' he said, 'poor little 
thing, and — girl — there's a note pinned on it.' He struck 
a match and he read a feeble line of writing on a scrap of 
paper. 

" 'This is Jesus' birthday,' it read, 'for His sake take care 
of my baby!' 

" 'It's a trust,' said Jim solemnly. 

" 'Jim,' I fairly shrieked, 'you won't — keep that baby ?' 

" 'Why not ?' questioned Jim. His voice was as cold as 
the moonlight on the snow. 

" 'Because — it isn't anybody's baby,' I sobbed, 'it might 
grow up — to be bad. You don't know about its mother or 
father. You don't know anything about it. Please don't 
keep the baby, Jim, dear!' 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 229 

"The little figure in the blanket began to cry loudly, and — 
well my dear, I was young. I pushed pity away to one side 
and hardened my selfish little heart. 

" 'Jim/ I pleaded, 'Jim, do you love me ?' 

" 'Girl — girl!' he cried, and the arm that was not holding 
the wailing baby went out to me, 'how I do love you.' 

" 'Then,' I chose my words carefully, 'then, Jim, you'll 
do as I say. You'll take the baby to the poor farm — tonight !' 
I touched his arm. 

"Jim looked down at the tiny wrinkled up face. Then 
he looked at me. 

" 'Girl,' he said huskily, 'you don't mean it. Why, the 
note — it's a sign, and the baby's so little — ' 

"I drew myself up to my full height and looked at him 
there in the moonlight. 'Then,' I said, 'you must choose 
between me — and the baby !' I stopped. 

"Jim's face grew deadly white and his hands came to- 
gether tight — tight — on the little blanket. 

" 'Do you mean it ?' he asked in a curiously hushed tone. 

"'I mean it!' I answered back. 

" 'Then I choose the baby,' he half sobbed. 'Oh, girl— 
don't you see — why are you so hard ?' But I walked away." 

The Lonely Lady paused for a moment. 

"I never saw him again," she said in a low tone, "he 
went away soon, and I — I went away too. The town was 
full of people, but the loneliness killed me — almost. I never 
saw the moon that I didn't think of that night and the look 
in his eyes — I never saw a tiny child that I didn't think of 
the little forsaken baby. I've thought many times what has 
become of it and wondered. ... My house is very quiet 
— there are no footsteps on the stairs, no smiling little faces; 
to peep out at me from the shadows!" Her voice trailed 
off into the stillness. 

"But," I questioned, "didn't you ever hear anything, at 
all?" 

"Jim was an orphan," answered the Lonely Lady, "and 
at first I was too proud to ask questions — later on people did 



230 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

not know. They said, '^out west' — but the country was a 
larger, harder country fifty-five years ago." She sighed, "I 
have never married," she said. 

Outside the wind was wailing as it banged with frost- 
bitten fingers at the shutters, but inside the soft rose glow 
of the fire fell over the silver hair, the sad face and the 
somber dress of the Lonely Lady. Her eyes were closed and 
her mouth was calm, but her hands were clenched tightly in 
her lap. 

The little flames — grown huge, cut into the log and with 
a small crash and a shower of hissing golden sparks, it fell 
into the grate. 

The Lonely Lady lives alone. She has a glowing fire, 
and a sunny window, and the cat, but she lives alone. And 
though she laughs charmingly, and tells gently little jokes, 
and talks sympathetically, a shadow dwells behind the soft- 
ness of her eyes that may be hurt, or wistfulness, or both. 



BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 231 



THE GREAT GIFT 



YEAES ago in the sweetly scented, hay-filled warmth 
of a stable a Mother bent over a smiling Baby and 
kissed his little face. And as she kissed him the angel 
chorus sang an anthem high in the heavens, and a glorious 
star shone over the land. 

It was the first Christmas day — but you all know the 
beautiful story. You know how the shepherds crept in to 
adore him, and how the sheep huddled together and watched 
the scene; you know how three wise men hurried from the 
East bringing gifts to lay at the feet of the infant Savior. 
It is about these gifts that I want to talk. 

One of the wise men brought gold with him, glittering 
yellow gold, and the other two brought frankincense and 
myrrh — ^two very costly products of the Orient. The gold, 
frankincense and myrrh were the most valued possessions of 
the three wise men, and yet they gave them at the silent 
bidding of a gleaming light that shone from Heaven and 
led to a stable. 

Since the first Christmas the giving of gifts has grown 
until it has become a mighty custom, a custom followed by 
nearly all of the inhabitants of Christian nations. And al- 
though some of the gifts are gifts inspired by a holy light, 
other gifts are very commonplace things, very, very far from 
God. 

I know a girl who begins long before Christmas to make 
and buy a multitude of presents. For months she works 
and saves and worries (for she is not a rich girl), and the 
day after Christmas she crumples up, and smiles whitely, 
and says: 

"I'm glad, glad, that it's over for another year!" 



238 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

"If you feel that way," I said once, "why do you bother 
to give so many presents? Surely they don't all go to rela- 
tives and dear friends." 

The girl laughed mirthlessly. "To tell you the absolute 
truth," she answered, "I have fewer relatives than any of 
the girls. As for friends — sometimes I think that there is 
no meaning to the word !" 

My eyes opened very wide. 

"Then," I wondered out loud — "why do you give so many 
gifts?" 

"Because" — she hesitated a moment before she answered 
— "because they all give presents to me and I've got to do 
something in return. It takes all of my money, and most 
of my time, but it's got to be done." 

The spirit of Christmas isn't in this kind of a gift, but 
oh, friends of mine, how many of you have never given a 
present from a sense of duty? 

There is another type of gift that is just as unpleasant, 
just as foreign to the true Christmas spirit as the gift of 
loveless duty. It is the gift given by a person who worries 
about it, makes other folk uncomfortable, and then finally 
hurries out at the last minute, dashing down crowded aisles, 
tiring already tired shopgirls, and finally getting the wrong 
thing in the whirl of nervousness and excitement. It is called 
the Thoughtless Gift. 

But then, shining through the mist of unhappiness caused 
by the wrong kind of giving, there is the Gift of Love, and 
every gift of love balances a number of thoughtless ones. 

I know a woman who lives alone in a tiny apartment. 
She has no family, and not a great many people get near 
enough to her to be truly her friends. Christmas is a lonely 
season to her — for Christmas is essentially a family day. 

Some people would sit in a corner and cry because they 
were alone, but this lady has lived in the city long enough 
to know its secrets. She has seen tenement rooms that nine 
hungry, sleepy, tired people live in, and her Christmas time 
is spent in trying to bring a little joy into their lives. The 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 233 

elaborate dinner that she could have is turned by magic into 
baskets full of simple food, the clothes and toys that she 
would buy if she had children of her own, into gifts for 
children who have never before seen a whole garment or a 
present. It is her kind of giving that makes Christmas — 
Christmas. 

A month or so ago I got a bulky note from a dear cor- 
respondent of mine. In the course of her letter she spoke 
of Christmas, and told me a charming little incident. "Per- 
haps you can use it," she wrote. I am going to tell you in 
her own words as nearly as I can remember. 

A little girl was sitting at her grandmother's knee telling 
about the gifts that she had purchased for her family and 
friends. She named them over gleefully ; a muffler for father, 
a scarf for mother, a jacknife for brother. 

"Nobody," she finished happily, "is forgotten !" 

The grandmother, a dear old Scotch woman, looked down 
tenderly into the glowing face, and when she spoke her voice 
was very soft, very reverent. 

"Dearie," she said, "dearie, dinna ye forget that 'tis 
Jesus' own birthday? What is your gift — to him?" 

Friends of mine, "God so loved the world that he gave 
his only begotten Son !" And the gift made so many years 
ago, the gift that began so gloriously in a manger and ended 
so heroically on a cross, has left a heritage of love for hun- 
dreds, for thousands of years. And yet on that Son's birth- 
day we often forget a gift to him ! 

A gift to God sounds rather subtle, rather difficult to 
understand, doesn't it? But when you stop to think it isn't 
very hard to find a suitable birthday present; for a gift to 
God is usually a gift that, like your face in the mirror, re- 
flects back to you. Perhaps a bright smile when your throat 
is choked up with sobs, a cheery word when you feel like 
saying something cross, would be an acceptable present. 
Perhaps a bit of love to one of the Father's unhappy chil- 
dren, or a helpful hand to one of his frightened ones, would 
be a thoughtful gift. Perhaps looking at the sunset when your 



234 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

heart is near to bursting with thunder clouds would make him 
understand. Oh ! it seems to me that we should give God a 
Christmas gift — a present that would last through all the 
year — even as his gift to the world has lasted through all the 
ages. 

I read a story one day about a little girl who wanted to 
give her mother a present on her birthday. The family were 
buying beautiful gifts, but the little girl owned one round 
copper penny — and no more. 

At last the birthday came and the mother — a radiant 
mother who thanked God for her children — was given the 
gifts that the older ones had saved up their money to buy. 
When the last box had been opened, the little girl, with tear- 
filled eyes, handed her a small crumpled letter with a penny 
enclosed. 

"Deer Muvver," it read, "this is the only muney I have, 
but I'm giving you all my luv with it." Oh, people every- 
where, no matter how poor we are, we can still give our love 
— and that is the Great Gift. 

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only be- 
gotten Son." And on the day of his giving the wise men 
followed a star of heavenly brightness that led to a dimly 
lighted stable. Near — oh, so near — in the sky of our souls 
there is a star glowing with a pure silver light leading us, 
and if we follow it we shall surely reach holy places here on 
earth. The wise men brought their most precious posses- 
sions, gold, frankincense and myrrh, to lay at the Christ 
child's feet. . . . What shall we give to Him ? 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 235 



CHRISTMAS EVE 



The night is thick with snow and sleet, and yet the stars 
are shining, 

And stores have flung their portals wide to shelter all 
the throng; 
And holly berries gleam like gems, and mistletoe is smiling 

A message full of Christmas joy to folk who crowd along. 
The happy mothers — hats awry — are buying toys and trinkets, 

And yet in some cold darkened loft, the city's sorry gain. 
Alone, pale silence keeping, while her baby child lies sleeping, 

A girl with Mary's tender smile is facing want and pain. 

The stockings hang in well filled rows above the glowing 
hearth stone, 
And childish prayers are climbing to the God Who 
reigns above; 
And kisses soft are falling on the smiling little faces. 

With promises of fun and toys — with murmurings of love. 
Oh ! Christmas carols ring with praise, with Yule time joy 
and laughter. 
And yet around the corner from the merry sounds that 
rise, 
A baby may be lying, may be sobbing, may be dying — 
As hopelessly he gazes with the Christ Child's gentle eyes. 



236 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



SANTA CLAUS' DILEMMA 



'Twas the night before Christmas, but Santa Claus sat 

In his workshop, with silvered head low; 
His reindeer were stamping, impatient to start 

On their Journey to earth through the snow. 
His shoulders were sagging, his kind mouth was drawn, 

And his cheeks had lost some of their red. 
And his voice sounded sad as he started to talk, 

For he moaned: "All the children in bed 
Are dreaming of toys that I'm going to bring. 

Of Teddy-bears all in a row. 
Of puppies, and sailboats, and paint-boxes bright, 

Of trains that will wind up and go. 
All these I can take them, but think of the ones 

Who asked me for dollies with curls, 
And eyes that would open and dresses of silk — 

My dear little, poor little girls !" 
So Santa Claus sobbed in his home at the North, 

And his gift-bag seemed terribly light — 
For the doll-makers brave in the far-away lands 

Were dying of wounds at the fight. 
And toys that they fashioned with love and with care. 

And always had sent him before, 
Were lying unfinished, unready to start. 

While they now helped to model a war ! 
No wonder that Santa Claus trembled with pain 

While his kind eyes were clouded with dread, 
^'It will be the first time in some hundreds of years 

That I haven't brought dollies," he said. 
Just then came a knock on the door of the shop — 

A knock that was gentle and light, 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 837 

"I wonder," said Santa — and quick dried his eyes — 

"Who can call at this hour of the night?" 
He strode to the door and the portal flung wide, 

And in stepped two figures so small 
That he winked in surprise and in thought stroked his beard. 

Before he could see them at all ! 
Their tiny warm coats had a buckle in front. 

And their slippers were white as the snow; 
And the faces that looked from their warm little hoods 

Were wide-eyed, and round, and aglow. 
"Well, well," quoth old Santa, "and who may you be ? 

Perhaps you are lost from the way? 
But where are you going, the night is so cold?" 

"Oh, sir! we are dollies," said they. 
''We heard that your gift-bag was empty of toys. 

So we hurried right ofE for your home. 
There are others of us — oh ! a million or more, 

All ready — and anxious to roam 
Out over the world, in your merry red sleigh. 

If you'll take us," they folded their hands. 
"I take you ?" cried Santa in accents of joy, 

'^hy, I'll take you to dozens of lands ! 
Pray, what are your names, little friends of my need, 

And where can the other dolls be?" 
"Oh, they are outside in the snow," laughed the two, 

"The Sunshiny Babies are we!" 
With chuckles old Santa Claus opened the door. 

And in trooped a gay, motley throng; 
Some planted themselves in a row by the wall. 

As if they would like to belong 
To Santa; and two of them stood by themselves; 

And some of them sat in small chairs; 
And one tiny boy held a tiny girl's hand — 

Until they were caught unawares. 
"Now where did you come from?" old Santa Claus asked 

Of two that sat down at a table; 



238 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 

He gasped in delight when they showed him a card, 

A "Made-in-America" label. 
''You may be surprised," spoke up three of the line. 

In chorus, and brightly they smiled, 
"But home in our country the folk have all read 

Of war, and the toy shops defiled; 
And so to keep children from sorrow and wrath, 

They hurried and worked with a will; 
And hammered, and molded and painted, and sewed. 

And baked us in ovens until 
We stand here before you, with beady-bright eyes 

And dresses and faces, and shoes." 
"Ah! what do they call you?" asked Santa Claus the?!. 

And they giggled, "The three peek-a-boos !" 
Just then on the still of the frosty-cold air 

Came the sleigh bells' harmonious chime. 
And Santa Claus reached for his gift-bag, and said, 

"Hop in — we shall just be in time 
To make children happy by bright Christmas morn." 

And all of the dolls laughed with glee. 
Jumped into the bag and lay still as small mice. 

Till never a one could you see. 

'Twas the night before Christmas, and Santa Claus sat 

In his sleigh, with a smile on his face. 
And knowing his gift-bag was full, soft he spoke, 

"This world is a wonderful place!" 
And lightly his reindeers ran over the earth, 

And brightly the moonbeams did play 
On the snow, and the east held a promise of light 

And the hope of a bright Christmas day. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 239 



WAITING 



Stockings long and black and thin, 

Hanging on the wall; 
Three small children, mousy-still. 

Waiting for a call. 
What if Santa — dear old saint — 

Doesn't come at all? 

Nighties aren't very warm — 
Three spines shake with fear; 

Wind is crying at the door. 

Sounding mighty near. . . . 

What if sleigh-bells shouldn't ring, 
Full of joy and cheer? 

Eager faces, sleepless, bright. 

Six small folded hands. 
Hearts that count the clock's faint tick. 

Soldier-like it stands. 
What if all the toys are lost. 

In some foreign lands? 

Midnight — after — widened eyes, 

Tears that almost fall. 
Boards that creak like ghosts that walk 

In the silent hall. 
What if Santa — poor old saint — 

Doesn't come at all? 



240 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



THE CHRISTMAS STREETS 



The lights are gay, the crowded way 

Is filled with tramping feet, 
And holly berries gleam like gems 

Against the snow and sleet. 
The stores are showing costly gifts, 

And colored signs are bright. 
But folk forget that Christmas eve 

Is Jesus' birthday night. 

The crowds whirl by, with laugh and sigh. 

But silent in the throng 
A figure stands with pleading hands 

And eyes that see no wrong. 
His tender smile is kind and sweet. 

And theatre signs instead 
Of gleaming harshly, blend and make 

A halo for His head. 

The bells ring out, the newsboys shout. 

And in the crowds that go. 
Rich satins touch with dingy rags. 

And dancing feet trip slow. 
But many eyes are blind to see. 

The One who breathes a prayer; 
And out of hundreds few can feel 

The Eapture in the air. 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 241 



The lights are gay, the crowded way- 
Is filled with heedless eyes, 

And hearts of stone; and yet alone, 
Bright in the evening skies, 

There shines a gleam of Holy light 
That wise men saw afar. 

And through the city street there glows. 
The promise of a Star! 



le 



242 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



CHRISTMAS 



'Twas many hundred years ago the angels sang their story, 

And far above there shone a star that silvered all the snow ; 

And crouching in a hay-filled bam — the wise men all 

adoring — 

The Mother Mary soothed her babe with whispers soft 

and low. 

The angels' song is silent in the sky and on the meadows, 
The snow is trampled blackly with a nation's marching 
feet, 
And cannon thunders to the stars that silently are keeping 

A vigil on the men that die — while all of life is sweet. 
A bugle sounds, the columns dart together, and a slashing 
Is heard as sabre cuts through flesh, as bullet screams 
its mirth; 
And wise men cry, and brave men die as armies strive with 
armies, 
And in a blood-red way they keep the Saviour's day on 
earth. 

The city streets are crowded with the rich and poor together. 
And satin go\nis rub elbows with the rags of grief and 
shame. 
And golden coins are flashing as a gem — a dainty trinket — 
Is purchased for some thoughtless one, a present ''In 
His Name." 
Oh ! all the paths are filled with slush, and in the darkened 
heavens 
The pale stars gleam behind a mist with fitful yellow light, 



REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 243 

But smiling sweet, with noiseless feet, the Christ Child may 
be walking 
Throughout the earth to see how people keep His birthday 
night. 

'Twas many hundred years ago the angels sang their story. 
And far above there shone a star that silvered all the 
snow ; 

And praying in a hay-filled barn — the wise men all adoring — 
The Mother Mary kissed the Babe of heaven here below. 



244 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 



SUNSET 



Sunset at evening, 

When all the chill of night 
Is crowding in about us 

To steal away the light. 
Sunset at evening, 

When heads are bending low 
Beneath the flaming colors 

Of Heaven's golden glow. 

Sunset at evening, 

The day has not been long — 
And through it all has echoed 

The murmur of a song. 
Sunset at evening, 

And Heaven's golden glow 
Shines like a benediction. 

When heads are bending low. 



